


An Insurrection of Angels

by gogirl212



Series: The Huguenot Rebellions [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Assassination Plot(s), Betrayal, Brotherhood, Crisis of Faith, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Mission Fic, Rebellion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-05-23 18:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14940006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogirl212/pseuds/gogirl212
Summary: The Musketeers and Captain Treville are caught in a web of intrigue and politics that threatens not only their lives but the stability of France itself.  With Cardinal Richelieu plotting, there is no guarantee they will all make it safely back to Paris. Set Pre-Series.





	1. Reunion

It was rare that Treville got to ride alone. If he wasn’t leading a column of men to a battle or encampment he was flanked by guards as he rode between military outposts organizing provisions and coordinating troop movements. Some months ago it would have been foolish for any man so obviously in the King’s service to have ridden in the region without a quartet of guards, but the strongholds of the Huguenots were either routed or under siege and the remaining forces scattered and on the run. There was always a risk, but the risk was far greater to the men that the Captain protected had Treville’s secret mission not gone well.

Mission wasn’t the right word. This had been personal between him and the Cardinal and memories of their encounter caused enough of a physical response that his horse whined and danced under the unexpected tension in his legs. Treville soothed a hand through her mane and shushed her as he gently reined her back to a walk, consciously relaxing in the saddle. While the exchange had been disturbing the outcome was in his favor. But Richelieu’s interest in his Musketeers, particularly Aramis, remained of concern. His instincts told him there was greater purpose in the Cardinal’s ill-conceived actions although Treville could not quite define what. 

It was like a chess game, some of the pieces clearly defined and others not yet revealed, on a board that he could only see part of. The Cardinal was always a presence, but now Rochefort too was in play and seemed far more than just a pawn in Richelieu's service. The Cardinal’s commission to form his own guard was troubling, as was the fact that Treville had received no notice of it from the King. Richelieu claimed he could draw from the roster of any regiment, even the Musketeers, to fill the ranks of his Red Guard but Treville had to wonder if Louis had truly authorized that. The King’s Musketeers were a point of pride for Louis and while he ceded much power to Richelieu he was not likely to let the Cardinal have the best of anything if it was at his expense. And there was also the list of names that Rochefort had provided to Athos as their next set of targets. Some were known Huguenot sympathizers but most had little to nothing to do with the rebellion. Judging by the Cardinal’s reaction, he had been far from pleased. So was Rochefort truly the Cardinal’s piece to play? And what plot was then in the works that Rochefort was targeting merchants and nobles in the region?

Treville scrubbed a hand across his face then took up the reins in both hands as he kicked his mount to a trot. He appreciated the solitude of the ride as he puzzled out the events of the last two weeks, but he was also road weary and ready for the ground beneath his feet and a bottle of wine to take the dust from his throat. He was also more than ready to be reunited with his three Musketeers. 

He gave a glance to the sack tied to the pommel of his saddle. Athos’s unexpected visit to him three days ago had initially caused his heart to clench in a fear he had not known since his own days in the ranks. His regiment was small and young in many ways, but those three men - Athos, Porthos, and Aramis - had quickly become the foundations on which he built the Musketeers. His first thought at seeing Athos standing angry and alone before him was that one or both of the others had been lost. He was a commander at war and knew a kind of anguish at the news of each soldier’s death under his command but these three . . . the ache in his chest had been that of a father, not a captain, steeling himself for news of a lost son. Knowing they were alive and well, Treville had quickly been able to snap his feelings back into that deep place where soldiers locked their secrets but Athos’s news had been dire nonetheless. 

The three pauldrons tied to his saddle spoke volumes to the depth of the damage the Cardinal’s grim task had inflicted. He had known these men to be disruptive, unruly and irreverent. They had a habit of creative interpretation when carrying out their orders and things Treville did not ever want to know were hidden within the silent communication between the three of them, but he had never known them to be anything less than good soldiers. Obedient, loyal and committed in their duty to the King and to France. Yet two weeks under Rochefort’s command and they had been pushed to the brink of desertion. Treville urged his horse forward. Yes, he was more than ready to see them despite his worry about what he might find.

xxxMMxxx

Treville rode into Royan just as the evening bells were ringing. The port city left a tang of salt on his lips as the sea breezes whisked down the narrow streets. Royan was not a large city, but it played a crucial role in the chain of defensive positions along the coastline. It was also part of the brisk trade route that sent French wares up to the English and Dutch brought back exotic goods from Morocco and Cameroon. The years of unrest in the area had also brought Royan a darker trade - it was a place to find soldiers for hire, mercenaries, assassins, cutpurses and privateers. When Treville suggested they meet in Royan, it had been with the full knowledge that leaving France was their only pathway to escape for his men should desertion truly be their only option. 

Treville had visited at the Captain’s Rest on several occasions while he had been stationed in the area. Only a month ago he had met here with General De Foix, assessing troop positions and hiring on two ships to assist in coastal patrols. That De Foix was both a military genius and Treville’s sword-brother had made their days together pleasant and the inn itself a respite from the day-to-day trials of military command. Treville hoped his men too would find peace in it’s secluded courtyard, clean rooms and startling view of the sea.

Treville was not surprised to find his musketeers had gravitated to the table in the small courtyard, much as they had taken over similar space in their garrison. Although it had been months now since they had been in Paris, Treville couldn’t help but smile remembering nights he had spent working in his office, windows open to the cool evening air, their conversation and laughter drifting up on the breeze. 

As Treville dismounted, he caught Athos’s eye. Ever vigilant, his Lieutenant was already on his feet, calling to the stable boy to help the Captain with his horse. Porthos raised his head to see if he was needed but a gesture from Treville kept in him his seat. He continued to idly shuffle the deck of cards in his hands but his gaze had drifted from Treville toward the shade of the apple tree on the other side of the courtyard. Aramis stood in quiet conversation with another man, the marksman’s hat slung low over his eyes. At Athos’s shout he had looked up and given a wave of acknowledgment to the Captain but now he leaned in toward his companion as he listened intently to words too soft to carry far. 

“The journey was uneventful,” Athos’s dry statement hinted at a question as his eyes flicked over the Captain looking for signs of injury or distress. Treville gave a snort. Athos could be as bad a mother hen as any of them.

“It was fine,” Treville said, pulling his saddle bag and arquebus from his mount, “I’m parched.” 

Athos gave a tip of his head and gestured toward the table. Treville paused to give the stable boy a coin and pull the sack from the pommel of his saddle. Athos raised an inquisitive eye but Treville just snorted again and moved toward the table. It wasn’t that he wanted to add more tension to the situation, but Treville had no intention of having this conversation until they were all gathered. 

Treville deposited his belongings on the table while Athos poured him a cup of wine. If Treville had been wondering how the men had passed their time the bottles and cards told most of the story and the well-oiled pistols and blades laid out beside them told him the rest. Drinking, gambling and fighting were the standard pastimes of his Musketeers. Treville downed wine and held out the cup to Athos to fill again.

“I like this inn,” Treville said, taking off his hat and dropping it on the table with his saddlebag, “Tell me you haven’t outstayed your welcome.” Porthos raised his head from the cards and gave the Captain a half smile.

“Not yet,” he said, “My heart ain’t been in it.” 

Treville sighed and scrubbed at the back of his sweat-damped hair, giving Porthos a nod. The big musketeer was not particularly prone to melancholy but Athos had not exaggerated about the toll they had each paid for their last mission. Porthos was subdued, no easy light in his dark eyes. His hands fidgeted with the cards in idle distraction not the deft shuffles and fans he typically practiced. Treville glanced at Athos as he passed him another cup of wine. His Lieutenant seldom gave anything away but he knew the tautness in his frame and the tension in his bearing spoke of the deep unease they all felt. Athos was still on guard, protecting his men even here when the only danger present was the news their Captain might deliver.

“What’s that about?” Treville asked, giving a nod toward Aramis and the stranger still conversing under the tree.

“We’re bein’ courted,” Porthos said with an ironic smile as he pushed himself back from the table and stood, “ Although that one seems to only have eyes for Aramis.” Treville scowled, looking immediately to Athos for clarification. He didn’t miss the smile that twitched at the edge of the swordsman’s lips.

“We made the mistake of sparring yesterday morning,” Athos explained, “And it has brought forward all sorts of invitations.”

“Two ship captains, a mercenary in need of partners, a cutpurse who has a plan to rob the Portmaster and a nobleman wanting an escort to Barcelona,” Porthos ticked off the people on his fingers, “And that was just this morning.”

“This afternoon we were offered our choice of Moroccan whores in exchange for transporting a locked chest and a thin little man to Brest.” Athos added, “And that one has been back twice,” Athos said with a glance toward Aramis. Treville could sense the discomfort coming from the two men. He was not surprised that they had been approached for work - it was common to assume that any man not in a uniform was someone who might be for hire and their sparring match would have immediately marked them as men of skill. Why this man in particular bothered Athos and Porthos though, Treville was not sure. 

He followed Athos’s eyes to where Aramis was still in conversation. It seemed one-sided, Aramis’s head cocked, his hands on his hips as he listened intently. The man he spoke with was dressed head to toe in black leather, trim and tight in a manner that was much like Athos. The rapier at his belt was of fine quality, the ornate silver basket flecked with colored jewels that sparkled in the sunlight piercing through the leaves of the apple tree. The man’s gestures seemed practiced and contained, a discipline about his movement that suggested a physical control that would put the expensive blade at his side to good use. As Treville watched, Aramis took off his hat and placed it on his chest, giving his head a slight bow. The other man raised a hand, making the sign of the cross. Aramis raised his head and extended his hand, the other man clasping the marksman’s forearm in a gesture familiar to soldiers. He held on to Aramis’s wrist, pulling him slightly closer to say one last thing. Aramis gave a nod and the men parted giving Treville an unimpeded view of the heavy gold cross at the man’s neck.

“A Jesuit,” Treville said with curiosity. Rome’s elite order were hardly known for dealing with blades-for-hire. He wondered what this could be about. The marksman replaced his hat on his head and made his way to join them at the table as the stranger left through the open gate.

“Captain,” Aramis said with a nod as he approached, “Apologies.” Aramis gave Treville a practiced smile. Treville took Aramis’s hand in greeting, searching the marksman’s face for clues to his state of mind. While all three of them would bear a burden for the business of the last two weeks, Aramis already seemed to carry more than his fair share. The crinkle of lines around his eyes said he had not been sleeping, the tentativeness of the hand that clasped his spoke of his uncertainty to Treville’s news but in every other way the marksman’s feelings were locked behind eyes that showed only their determination to persevere.

“It’s good to see you,” Treville said warmly, “All of you,” he added. And he meant it. These men touched his heart like no others.

“You have news?” Athos asked casually. Instinctually the three of them shifted closer, shoulders almost brushing as they waited on word from Treville.

“The Cardinal was quite impressed with your work,” Treville said, knowing full well the men would hear the hollowness in the compliment, “But after some discussion he has disbanded his reconnaissance squad.” He felt the men bristle at the term. They had been assigned as assassins not spies, Aramis targeting men on orders from Rochefort and Athos and Porthos holding the responsibility to make sure he kept firing his gun. 

“And us?” Porthos’s tight-lipped question held a dangerous edge. Treville reached to his pile of gear and pulled open the sack that had been tied to his horse. Three leather pauldrons spilled out onto the table.

“You are reassigned to my command,” Treville said gruffly, surprised at the emotions threatening his composure, “We will rejoin the unit and begin preparations to return to Paris.” Their relief was collective. Immediately Porthos’s face broke into an enormous grin as he pulled his pauldron from the table.

“Hello beautiful,” he said, giving the tooled leather shoulder piece a quick kiss before slipping it back on his arm. Porthos was a straightforward creature and there was no mystery as to his pleasures or his pain. Porthos’s place in the world was defined by being a Musketeer and his entire demeanor changed as things were set right by him. 

Athos rolled his eyes at Porthos’s needlessly dramatic reunion with his uniform, but Treville could see the fondness in his gaze. Athos took his pauldron from the table and with a glance at Aramis picked up the marksman’s as well and offered it to him. Aramis and Athos exchanged an unreadable look but Aramis took up the pauldron, turning it over in his hands as if he was seeing it for the first time. Athos started opening up the buckles on his but paused before slipping it on his arm.

“Are we free of the Cardinal that easily?” Athos’s question was simple but there was so much more behind his words. He wanted to know what the Captain had done to have them reassigned. But he also wanted assurances that they would never be in this position again. Both were things Treville knew he could not answer. 

“Nothing about dealing with the Cardinal is easy,” Treville said with a sigh, “Now that you have gotten his attention, I suspect he will not forget you,” Treville gave a nod toward the pauldron in Athos’s hands and the swordsman handed it over. Widening the opening, he slipped it up and over Athos’s shoulder, moving behind him to do up the buckles. There was something sacred in placing the leather armor on the shoulder of a Musketeer, something of a promise that in exchange for loyalty, bravery and skill they would in some way be under Treville’s protection. His watchful eye to guide them to be better soldiers, grow them to be strong men and watch over them when they were powerless to do so themselves. As Treville buckled the pauldron onto his Lieutenant’s arm he felt the familiar ache of failure - this was not the first time loyalty to the the crown and the orders of the Cardinal had put that promise in jeopardy. Finishing the last buckle, he gave a glance to Aramis.

The marksman’s face was inscrutable as he held the pauldron in his hands, but his eyes looked tired and there was an emptiness there Treville had not seen in months. Treville felt a pang of guilt stab at his heart. His dealings with the Cardinal had twice now forced him to act without honor and both times it was Aramis who paid the greatest price. 

“Aramis,” Athos said softly. There was a question in the word. On Aramis’s other side Porthos had stiffened, his features set in a grim line as his eyes widened in worry. Aramis exchanged a look with each of them that Treville could not decipher before turning the pauldron over in his hands, tracing the scores and slash marks that ran across the etched fleur-de-lis.

“This has served me well,” Aramis said with a fond smile, “But I wonder sometimes if I have done the same.”

“You are a fine soldier, Aramis,” Treville’s answer was immediate and sincere, “I could not ask for better.”

“I am good with a musket and pistol but that does not make me a fine soldier,” Aramis raised his eyes to meet Treville’s gaze, “I disobeyed orders.”

“Orders we shouldn’t have had to carry out in the first place,” Porthos interjected fiercely. 

“You acted with conscience and principle,” Treville affirmed, “And that will always be a hallmark of being a Musketeer.” Aramis gave him a small smile.

“Duty and honor. We think as Musketeers we are somehow . . . more. More than mindless soldiers who aim a gun at anything in front of them.” Treville heard the bitterness in his words. Aramis cradled the pauldron in his right hand, pressing it against his chest. His tone softened, “Thank you for returning this to me,” Aramis gave a respectful dip of his head and cleared his throat, his tone lighter but not easy, “Please excuse me. I’ve got to speak to the ferrier,” he nodded toward the man in the leather apron who was just entering the stable, “My horse needs a new shoe,” and turned away, moving toward the stables, the pauldron held carefully in his hands but not yet on his shoulder where it belonged.

Porthos sighed and moved to follow the marksman but Treville laid a hand to his chest. “No, let me.”

Porthos looked grim but gave a shrug and sat back down to his cards. Athos caught Treville’s eye, his steely blue gaze holding both a threat and promise. Treville had a feeling that if Aramis refused his pauldron the other two would be lying again on the table beside it. Treville scrubbed a hand over his face and straightened his shoulders. Nothing was ever easy with these three.


	2. Reconciliation

The smell of horse and hay had long been comforting to Treville. Riding had been one of the pleasures of his youth and the memories of hunting and camping with his father and brothers were some that he most savored. When he decided on a path of military service, it was no surprise he picked the cavalry. That the Musketeers were an elite mounted unit were as much a reflection of Treville’s own passions as Louis’s pride in having the best of the best in all things.

His horse nickered in greeting has he paused by her stall to check in on the work of the stable boy. He had her stripped down and was vigorously working at her left flank with a curry brush. Treville reached out a hand to scratch at the beast’s nose and she wuffled softly into his palm.

“How’s she looking?” Treville asked as the horse pushed at his chest, hoping to wheedle from him some sugar or an apple. 

“She’s a fine beast, sir,” the boy said, not pausing in his work, “Needs a good scrub though.” The boy was right. Campaigning did not offer the best of care for either mounts or men. It would be welcome for all of them to be back in Paris.

“See to it well then,” Treville said, fishing two sous from his pocket,“She deserves your best.” The boy’s eyes widened in appreciation as he reached over the horse’s back to take the coins.

“I will, sir,” the boy promised.

“Where’s the farrier?” Treville asked.

“Out back,” the boy said with a nod toward the far end of the stable. “He’s puttin’ a new shoe on. She’s a fine horse too. Four black Friesians in the stables, that’s rare in a day to see one. Are you nobles?” 

Treville snickered. To the boy it might seem that. “No, we are the King’s Musketeers,” Treville said proudly, “I’ll send the farrier back to check her shoes.” 

Treville gave his horse a final pat and left the boy to do his work. He heard the ring of metal striking metal as he approached the other end of the stable. It opened out to a small flagstone yard overlooking the sea. It was a bit of drop to the water, so no docks or warehouses had been built here. Instead this ridge along the ocean had given home to a series of inns, houses and shops. That the inn was also upwind of the fisheries and butchers helped to make the Captain’s Rest a pleasant stay, although extra coin was required. 

Aramis was in his shirt sleeves, hat and coat laid aside on a bench while he propped up his mount’s back leg on his knee. The shoe was off and the farrier banged out a bend while Aramis filed down a ridge from the animal’s hoof. He watched from the dim of the doorway, unnoticed by the typically hyper-observant marksman. There was an unguarded ease in Aramis’s movements as he managed the filing. The man seemed as comfortable beneath his horse as he was on it. While Treville did not know all of Aramis’s background, he knew that his father had also trained him to ride and hunt, although the memories did not seem as pleasant to Aramis as Treville’s own were to him. 

Aramis had been one of his first recruits to the regiment and after the loss at Savoy was now among the most senior. He had come to him battle-seasoned and with a reputation for his marksmanship. It was rumored he never missed - not with his musket and not with the ladies of the court. Treville had liked him immediately, as most people did when then met him. He had promised Aramis he would serve on the side of justice and honor as a Musketeer but as he often did now since the events at Savoy he would find himself looking at the young man and feel the weight of that vow pressing down. Twice now he had failed to protect this man. A soldier put his life in the hands of his commander and Treville did not take the responsibility lightly. 

The farrier finished with the shoe and Aramis straightened up to swap places with him, slapping at his trousers to remove the dust and hair from the horse. Treville stepped into the courtyard to meet Aramis by the bench.

“All’s well?” Treville asked as the marksman pulled his braces back over his shoulders.

“She picked up a stone on her way here,” Aramis explained, “Just needed the farrier to set her to rights.”

“If only it was that easy with everything,” Treville said with a gruff smile, “Just bang out the dents and all is well again.” Aramis gave him a wry smile and nodded in agreement. “I like this view,” Treville said with a look to the sea. Aramis followed his gaze and shifted to stand by the sea wall, arms resting over top as he gazed at the ocean. 

“I’ve never much cared for the sea,” Aramis said over his shoulder. Treville stepped beside him, the ring of the farrier‘ s hammer muffled by the ocean breezes. 

“No promise of adventure and exploration across those waters?” Treville asked.

“The sea is always restless,” Aramis said looking out over the unruly swirls and peaks of the waves, “Always demanding. Always unpredictable. I take no ease from it.” Treville smiled to himself and wondered if Aramis knew how often Treville used those words when looking over his balcony at their table in the garrison courtyard.

“It is rare for a soldier on campaign to find respite,” Treville said, “We have been long months away from Paris. I will be glad to go home.”

“Home,” Aramis sighed, “You know other men speak of home and they mean wives and families, not cots at the Garrison and Serge’s bad cooking.”

“Nothing is stopping you from taking a wife,” Treville replied.

“Nothing except Madame d’Angleterre,” Aramis said with a smile, “And Madame de Maintenon, and Madame Roland . . .”

“Enough!” Treville huffed, “These are not things I wish to know.” Treville knew Aramis had a reputation as a libertine, but he did not want the details of the courtesans and noblewomen of his Musketeer’s liaisons. He had to spend far too much time at court himself and had no desire to encourage the consequences that having that knowledge might engender. “Still,” Treville added with a twinkle in his eye, “Those are three excellent reasons to return to Paris.”

“Are they reason enough though?” Aramis said, his gaze toward the sun setting over the ocean.

“I would think the Musketeers are reason enough,” Treville said.

“I love being a soldier,” Aramis said wistfully, “I love even more becoming a Musketeer. But I wonder sometimes if that is all there is for me.”

“You think there is a better life for you than the Musketeers?” Treville asked. “I don’t really see you taking up farming and being content with it.”

“No, not farming,” Aramis said with a small chuckle, “Too muddy. My father always wanted me to enter the seminary.”

“You are considering the Jesuits,” Treville said knowingly, “I have wondered sometimes if the warrior-priests of Rome would some day hold appeal for you.”

“I hold the Musketeers in the highest regard, Captain,” Aramis answered, “And I hold myself honored to be sworn to the service of King and France. But perhaps I am meant to be sworn to God too?” Aramis ran a hand through his unruly hair and sighed, then turned his gaze to Treville, his bright brown eyes troubled and full of questions. 

“I do not see one as exclusive to the other,” Treville shrugged, “Our duty is to God, King and France.”

“And each other,” Aramis added. Treville heard no accusation in Aramis’s voice but that did not mean Treville didn’t feel it.

“Always to each other,” Treville said. A brief silence stretched between them before Treville continued, “Should you wish to pursue a release of your commission to join the Jesuit order, I would not stop you,” Treville’s heart felt heavy as he said the words, but he knew them to be the truth. “But I do not think you will find what you are looking for there. While the Jesuits may serve God, they are still but men and subject to the same political forces in Rome as we are in France. They are no more right in their causes or their actions as we are.” 

Aramis hung his head at the Captain’s assessment, and Treville knew he had finally touched on the heart of the matter. It wasn’t merely Aramis’s personal guilt over the actions he had taken, he was questioning the roots of the orders themselves. Unlike Treville, he saw it as the work of France, not the singular political agendas of Richelieu and Rochefort. 

“No matter where you place your allegiance, be it to King or Pope,” Treville continued, “A soldier’s duty is to follow orders, wherever they may lead. It is an act of faith, regardless. ”

“I’m not sure what I have left to have faith in other than in God,” Aramis’s voice sounded distant as his eyes again roamed over the sea. Treville longed to say ‘have faith in me’ but the words stuck in his throat. 

“The regiment. The garrison. Your sword-brothers,” That Treville could say with deep conviction, “Would you find better men to pledge your protection to than Athos and Porthos?” Aramis gave a small shake of his head.

“No, that I would not,” his lips tuned up in a smile and he let his gaze meet Treville’s again, “I would not have survived this without them. Not these past two weeks or the past eight months. Maybe I would not have survived Savoy.” Aramis’s gaze narrowed, the old pain returning to ghost in his eyes. Treville feared that specter might never settle.

“They are worried for you,” Treville said, unable to include himself for his role in creating the situation to begin with.

“They need not be,” Aramis replied and Treville knew the words were not for Athos and Porthos, “I have made my confession, I have asked God’s forgiveness and I have prayed for the souls of the lives I have taken. Absolution will come through penance and redemption is always available to those who seek it.” 

“You think that pennance is joining the Jesuits?” Treville felt a smaller flutter in his chest, like his heart missing a beat.

“I hope my sins are not yet so great that God would ask me to leave my brothers behind,” Aramis said gruffly. He cleared his throat and continued lightly, “Or leave behind Madame d’Angleterre or Madame de Maintenon . . .”

“Or Madame Roland,” Treville interrupted, “I know. That would be asking too much of any man,” he shared a genuine smile with Aramis, happy to see it returned. “I’m hungry. Let’s find the others.” 

He clapped Aramis on the back and they walked back toward the inn. Aramis paused to gather his belongings from the bench. He perched his hat on his head, but folded his leather coat over his arm, the pauldron still in his hand. As Treville followed Aramis back toward the stable he did not miss the statement that Aramis was making by failing to resume his uniform but Treville’s heart felt more at ease. Aramis would not leave Athos and Porthos behind. He would have his Musketeer back as soon as it was time to ride out together again.


	3. Recovery

A steady and insistent stream of morning sunlight was what finally forced Aramis to disentangle himself from the twisted sheets and sprawled limbs of Madame Chevreuse and slip carefully from the bed. He gave a long and indulgent stretch, enjoying a looseness in his body he had not felt in weeks. The sex had been very good. Smiling contentedly, he stumbled to the chamber pot to relieve himself before moving quietly around the room to gather his clothing. He had taken her twice - once hard and fast up against the door to her bedchambers, his pants and boots still on, and then again later, slowly and indulgently, with her laid out on the bed as he carefully explored every inch of her. Even now the generous curve of her hip and the small swell of her belly were inviting him back to bed. A man could get lost in that body.

Aramis gave a regretful smile to the sleeping form as he pulled the sheet up over her waist. He couldn't help himself from slipping a hand over one luscious breast as he planted a soft kiss to her forehead. She responded in her sleep, sighing softly as she moved into his hand. What a passionate creature she was and Aramis hoped that Monsieur Chevreuse would appreciate that new spot he had helped her discover last night.

Thoughts of Monsieur Chevreuse were enough to propel Aramis back to the business of dressing. He laid his clothes on the chair by the window, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight as he stepped into his small clothes. He felt renewed. It always helped to spend a night indulging in the most life-affirming of acts but Aramis recognized his feelings as being more than just the benefits of companionship and comfort. Treville's arrival yesterday had been a welcome balm to his troubled soul. Richelieu's orders had pushed him to a breaking point between duty and honor that had left him bereft of ever being able to soldier again. That he still held Treville's trust and a place in the regiment despite his disobedience had been a weight lifted. That the Captain was ready to support their desertion rather than force them back to a dishonorable duty also bolstered his spirit. As much as Aramis put faith in God, in dark times he fought hard to remember that men could be good, including himself.

It had been difficult not to consider the assignment a betrayal on Treville's part. Aramis knew his duty was to follow orders, but he tried to place himself in the hands of men whose orders would not cost him the benefit of heaven for his immortal soul. When Rochefort had handed them the new list of names, Aramis had felt a deep despair settle over him. He had not felt this tormented between his duty and conscience since his refusal to enter the seminary.

He had said as much to Brother Marcos the night before. His offer to join their ranks as a lay brother, to explore with them the possibility of eventually taking up orders as priest and warrior under orders from the Pope, had appealed to him. But Aramis knew it was not faith that was leading him to the Jesuits, but guilt. Brother Marcos was quite persuasive and Aramis could not deny there was something about the man that spoke of a serenity that Aramis himself often sought but could rarely find. In the end though, he had turned the offer down.

Aramis knew that Treville had spoken the truth when he called his pull toward the Jesuits an act of penance. He knew himself well enough to recognize the priesthood as a retreat from his past. Sequestering himself from the world behind a high stone wall may well be for him the ultimate penance but it would not lead to either atonement or redemption. As a Musketeer, he found all of three of those possible, plus a healthy joie de vivre that for Aramis was as much an expression of the abundance of God's love as any time spent on his knees. Guilt might be his companion, but it would not be his master. As if God was sanctioning his decision, he had literally bumped into Madame Chevreuse the moment he had turned his heel on Brother Marcos. Aramis could not ignore such an obvious sign from God as a beautiful woman quite literally falling into his arms.

Finished dressing, Aramis buckled his sword belt over his sash, ready to meet his companions at the inn. As Aramis quietly slipped out the door he realized he had lingered too long - the sun was well up and Athos and Porthos would be at breakfast by now. His morning return would not go unnoticed. Aramis gave his hat a tug and smiled. He knew he would have to endure their ribbing but there was nothing about his evening spent with the delicious Madame Chevreuse that he could find to feel guilty about.

xxxMMMxxx

As Aramis entered the courtyard of The Captain's Rest he found exactly what he expected, Athos and Porthos sharing the morning meal at the small table and a third glass and empty plate conspicuously waiting for him. He chuckled to himself and hooked his thumbs into his sword belt, adopting an easy saunter that remained unaffected by the laughter already rising up from the table.

Not three steps into the yard, a rush of hoof beats behind him caused Aramis to shift quickly to make way even as Athos shouted out in warning. Aramis scurried aside as six mounted men rode in fast through the gate. Three pulled up immediately, but three others banked to the right and Aramis found himself surrounded by stamping horses and stern-faced men. He barely had time to register that these men were with the Jesuit squadron dispatched with Brother Marcos before one of the men flung himself from the saddle and slammed them both to the ground. Winded and surprised, Aramis heard Porthos shouting even as he managed to get a knee between himself and his attacker. With a great heave the body covering his shifted but before Aramis could scramble back to his feet his hands were grabbed and yanked overhead as another man delivered two vicious kicks to his ribs. He immediately doubled over in pain and the men used his own momentum against him to flip him to his stomach and press his body into the dirt. A great weight pushed heavily into the small of his back as what could only be the sole of a boot pressed on his neck, effectively immobilizing him. One of his arms was caught beneath his own body and the other was pulled high up his back with a force that threatened to break it. Pain flaring in his arm and ribs, Aramis stopped struggling against his captors and lay still, trying to steady his panting breaths and subdue his own panic.

Through the cacophony of shouting men Aramis herd the ring of steel as men drew blades. He could see nothing other than the hooves of the horses dancing uncomfortably close to where he was pinned helplessly on the ground, but he knew that Athos and Porthos would have drawn the moment they saw him go down. The Jesuits would have as well and with four men to their two Athos and Porthos would be hard-pressed against the well-trained fighters.

"Stand down!" Captain Treville's unmistakable baritone cut through the mayhem like a sharp blade, "What's the meaning of this?"

"This man is our prisoner," an equally authoritative voice shot back, "He will be taken to Rome to stand trial for the murder of Brother Marcos." Aramis started at the words and attempted to speak but his captor gave a jerk to his already abused arm and all that came out was a gasp of pain.

"Break his arm and I will gut you," Porthos's voice was little more than a growl. The man holding him did not shift his arm further, but the boot at his necked pressed down and Aramis grunted in response.

"Lower your sword, or I'll crush his windpipe," came the responding challenge.

"Stop this. Enough!" The command in Treville's voice was clear. He was a man who was used to being listened to, "Porthos lower your blade." There was a brief pause and then again, "Porthos, your blade. That is an order." Porthos must have obeyed as the pressure on Aramis's neck became slightly more bearable even if his left arm was still pinned close to the breaking point. Aramis sucked in as much as air as he could while he tried to follow the conversation going on above him.

"I am Captain Treville of the King's Musketeers and that is one of my men," Treville was forceful, but not shouting, "An act against him is an act of war against France. Are you really prepared to do that, here on French soil?"

"He murdered Brother Marcos," the first speaker replied, "His crimes will not go unpunished."

"If he did commit murder, he will hang for it. I promise you that," Treville was measured, choosing the words that would diffuse the situation and earn Aramis his release, "Release him to my custody and I swear by my oath as Captain that justice will be served."

There was a tense pause where no one spoke and Aramis wondered if there would be a fight after all. Treville would hardly let them drag him off to Rome and Athos and Porthos were not likely to let anyone leave this yard with him as long as they had breath in their bodies to fight. An image of himself lying helpless on the ground as his comrades were slain trying to defend him flashed in his mind but before Aramis could dwell on it the boot was lifted from his neck, his arm released, and the knee pressed in his back was gone.

Aramis gulped in air, wincing as he tried to straighten out his throbbing arm and push himself up from the ground. A strong hand wrapped around his bicep while another pushed up against his chest and Aramis got to his knees to find Porthos's concerned face in front of him.

"Aramis?" The soft question wanted to know how badly he was injured, if he could stand, if he knew what was going on. Not trusting his voice yet and not willing to give these men the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in pain, Aramis answered the question with just a nod as he continued to breathe heavily. It was enough for Porthos who did most of the work getting Aramis back to his feet.

Hand still around Aramis's arm, Porthos started to walk the marksman forward, only to have Aramis pause. With a pained grunt, Aramis bent over and picked up his hat from the dirt. He straightened up slowly, making a show of knocking the dust off the hat while glaring at the three men he suspected had been the ones to jump him. Taking his time, he restored the hat to his head and then shrugged off Porthos's support as he moved to join Treville and Athos, standing together in front of the remaining men. It didn't matter that his shoulder felt on fire and breathing was still not easy, Aramis was not about to show any further sign of weakness to the men who had attacked him.

Athos flicked a stern gaze over him as he approached and Aramis gave a small shake of his head. No, he had no idea what this was about. Athos's eyes softened then, asking this time if Aramis was alright. The wry smirk Aramis allowed to crease his lips let Athos know that he was far from down for the count. This earned him a nod from the Lieutenant as he shifted to give Aramis his place beside Treville. Flanked on both sides and with Porthos at his back, Aramis knew there was no way in hell he would be going anywhere against his will.

"Now what is this all about?" Treville's voice was soft but the tone as hard as steel, "Who is in charge here?"

"I am Father Pietro," the owner of the authoritative voice stepped forward. The only things distinguishing him from his other brethren in black leather were the red lined cape on his shoulders and the embroidery on the skull cap on his head. "These men are under my orders. We are here on a diplomatic mission from Roma."

"You are accusing one of my men of murder," the calm of Treville's voice made it sound as if this happened routinely, "What evidence do you have?"

"He had a meeting with Fratello Marcos last night," Father Pietro seemed equally sure of himself, "Not an hour after that meeting, he was found dead, this dagger buried in his chest," Father Pietro drew a main gauche from the belt at his waist and held it up before Treville, "It had to be from someone he knew, someone he trusted, for him to have let a man get that close. And your man was the last to see him alive."

Treville extended his hand and Father Lucas gave him the dagger. He examined it quickly, spinning the blade in his hand before holding it up to Aramis.

"Is this weapon yours?" he asked. Aramis shook his head.

"No," he said, his voice raspy and rough. Aramis gave a slight cough and cleared his throat, "No," he said again with more force, "My blade is here," Aramis couldn't help wincing as he reached his left hand behind his back to draw his main gauche, "You know that this is mine and that I carry no other." Treville nodded and then passed the blade the Jesuit had given him to Athos who turned it over thoughtfully in his hands as Treville continued.

"Did you meet Brother Marcos last night?" Treville asked, his eyes demanding that Aramis speak the truth.

"Yes, I did," Aramis said, knowing full well Treville would not be pleased with how he had spent the evening but knowing better than to be anything other than honest, "We met outside the tavern on Rue Barye."

"What did you discuss?" Treville was going to be thorough and Aramis knew he had no choice.

"He asked me again to join the order as a lay brother," Aramis said, "I thanked him but said no. My place was in the Musketeers. We parted company peacefully and I did not see him again."

"Did you return here afterward?" Treville asked. Aramis swallowed. He did not want to betray Madame Chevreuse's infidelity to her husband but she was, in fact, his alibi.

"I encountered a young wife of a merchant who was in distress at the unexpected absence of her husband who had been called away on business," Aramis replied, "She worried for her safety in the night so I escorted her home."

"And then you returned here," Despite it being a statement, Aramis clearly heard the hope, and the question, in Treville's voice. Aramis cleared his throat before answering.

"I did not," Aramis licked his lips, his mouth as dry as when his face had been in the dust, "The young Madame was distraught over her husband's delay from his business meeting and insisted she would not rest until he returned home. I... ummm. . . remained at her side giving what comfort I could until early morning when she was considerably calmed duty demanded I return here." Aramis was fairly certain that Porthos was snickering behind him.

"And the Madame will attest to this?" Treville's voice was steady and Aramis was not exactly certain how much trouble he was in.

"She would, Captain," Aramis answered, "Although I would prefer the matter handled discretely as Madame will be most ashamed that her discomfiture has been made public." Treville's heavy sigh let Aramis know he knew exactly how Madame had passed her evening.

"We have my Musketeer's word and a witness who can corroborate his story," Treville said, eyes returning to Father Pietro, "You have accused the wrong man."

"But who else would he have met with at this hour?" Father Pietro was not willing to let this go and turned his attention directly to Aramis, "You were of great interest to him and I am sure he would have tried anything to persuade you, even following you to speak with you again. If he found you in a compromising position, you would have turned on him . . ." Father Pietro trailed off as Aramis shook his head.

"No, Father, he did not follow me," Aramis stepped forward, moving from the protective circle of his brothers-in-arms, "He was disappointed in my choice and promised that my life of sin would ruin me, but we parted in peace. I liked Brother Marcos," Aramis said sincerely, "And I am sorry for his loss. But it was not by my hand. I swear before God that this is true," Aramis held Father Pietro's gaze and watched as the priest took in his measure. They stood there silently and then Father Pietro gave a nod, indicating he accepted Aramis's story. There was a small outcry from one of the other Jesuits but whatever dissension might have arisen was crushed with one gesture from Father Pietro.

"It seems we are mistaken," Father Pietro said, "But now we find ourselves on the trail of a murderer with no clues and our mission a failure before it is even begun. Without Fratello Marcos, we cannot fulfill our charge from Rome."

"You do have a clue," Athos spoke up from behind Aramis and stepped forward, "This blade is Italian." He flipped the main gauche in his hand so that he held the blade and extended the hilt to the Father, "See there, just above where the tang sets into the handle, that mark is from a Florentine sword maker."

"That proves nothing," Father Pietro said although his eyes had widened when Athos mentioned the blade's origin, "It is not surprising to find a foreign blade in a port city."

"But that mark says it is no ordinary blade," Athos continued, "This swordmaker is well known for his work and takes commissions only from the Royal household. Your man was killed by someone close to the Grand Duke of Florence," Athos raised a brow, and Aramis knew the swordsman's strategic mind had tied together enough details to have a theory, "Your mission from Rome is related to the Medici family and someone with knowledge of it does not wish you to succeed. If it involves the Medici's, it is now the business of France as well."

Athos's words hung between the men and Aramis knew his friend had scored close to the mark. Father Pietro looked genuinely taken aback and the men around him shifted uncomfortably. Aramis wondered for a moment if they would be reaching for blades again but then Father Pietro let out a sigh and stepped closer to Captain Treville.

"My mission is to Duke Victor Amadeus of Savoy and it has everything to do with France," Father Pietro said softly, "Let us find a place to speak in confidence. I am afraid our failure could spell disaster for us all."


	4. Retaliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting - I’m on vacation in Italy (!) and do not have reliable internet. Don’t worry, I promise this story will be finished! Many thanks to Issai for beta-reading although the typos and grammatical mistakes are all mine! Thank you very much to those guests who offer “kudos” - it means a lot to all fic writers to know someone out there is reading and liking the work. 
> 
> And for a random but related slice of the writer’s life - my Italian is terrible but I’m trying to learn more so I picked up a copy in Italian of a story I knew well, really well . . . - anyone want to guess what I’m reading?!

They gathered at a table at the back of the inn, Father Pietro taking a spot across from Treville, Athos beside him and Aramis and Porthos flanking their Captain. That Porthos had swapped spots with Aramis, taking the seat the marksman typically preferred with the most visibility to the door, told Treville his musketeers were still on their guard regarding any further attacks on Aramis. Treville himself was uncertain enough about the Jesuits behaving themselves that he had insisted that his musketeers join the meeting. While the Jesuits’ reputation for discipline was well known, leaving his men outnumbered with six angry, unsupervised soldiers was not a wise course.

As the innkeep poured them wine, Treville spared a glance to Aramis. The set of the marksman’s jaw showed the stress he was under but it was anger that flashed from his eyes, not pain. Despite the rough handling Aramis seemed no worse for the wear but his silence since recounting his evening activities spoke volumes. Maybe it was Aramis who shouldn’t be left alone with the Jesuits just now, not the other way around. Treville took up his cup and took a long drink. He had that all too familiar feeling that his three best musketeers had once again attracted trouble to his doorstep. 

“Tell me about your mission,” Treville said quietly as the innkeeper made his way back toward the bar.

“These matters are very sensitive,” Father Pietro said, flicking his eyes to the men seated with them, “I thought we were to have a private audience.”

“You lost that opportunity when you rode in and attacked my man,” Treville was in no mood for politics, “I don’t know you, I don’t trust you, and I’d be just as happy having this conversation with you in a cell in La Rochelle.” Father Pietro bristled at that, casting a look toward the doorway to the inn where two of men stood watching from a respectful distance. The distrust was clearly mutual.

“Padre,” Aramis’s voice was gentle, a testament to how effectively the musketeer could wield it, “I knew Brother Marcos but a short time but I would like the opportunity to avenge his murder, as I assume you do as well. Per favore, Padre. Let us work together in this.” Father Pietro glanced at them all again before letting out a small sigh of resignation. Aramis sat back in his chair and gave Treville a meaningful nod.

“You said that your business was with the Duke of Savoy,” Treville prompted.

“Si,” Father Pietro confirmed, “We have been sent from Roma with offers of a treaty with Italia and Espagna. It is imperative we meet the Duke in Bordeaux three days from now.”

“How does Brother Marcos’s death prevent that?” Treville asked. “I understand the need to investigate, but surely the local authorities here can handle that?”

Father Pietro licked his lips nervously and took a sip of wine. Despite Aramis’s plea, he was obviously still uncertain about sharing too much. A treaty was indeed a sensitive matter, but there had to be more to the situation. Treville caught Athos’s eye, it seemed the swordsman was thinking the same thing.

“I can’t believe Italy would negotiate a treaty on French soil without France being aware,” Athos said drily.

“Francia is aware,” Father Pietro replied through tight lips, “Fratello Marcos was a Jesuit, yes, but assigned from Cardinale Richelieu as the French emissary and as our guide through Bordeaux,” Father Pietro shifted uncomfortably in his chair, “The Duke of Savoy will not meet with us without a representative of Francia.”

“Why’re the Medici’s so interested in this treaty?” Porthos asked. The question was directed to Athos as much as Father Pietro. One of the assets of having Athos as a Lieutenant was his uncanny ability to unravel the truth out of a complicated situation. His knowledge of the inner workings of politics was unusual for a soldier, but not for the noble that Treville knew him to be. He had learned to rely on Athos’s insights and saw that Porthos obviously had too.

“The Italian states are not as united as the provinces of Francia,” Father Pietro explained, “Florencia is a free state and the Grand Duke’s opinions do not always align with those of Roma. The Medici’s have their own reasons to want a treaty with Savoy on their terms.” Everyone at the table knew that that reason was Marie de’Medici, the currently exiled mother of King Louis of France.

“More specifically,” Athos clarified, “They do not want this negotiation to take place at all as they have killed the one man necessary for the meeting happening.” 

“What are the terms of the treaty?” Treville asked.

“I cannot say,” Father Pietro held up a hand before Treville could interrupt him, “because I do not know. The documents are locked in a chest under Papal seal with orders that it may not be opened until we reach Bordeaux.”

“Given the circumstances,” Treville replied, “Don’t you think it wise to find out now?”

“Would you suggest the same if it was your orders, from your King?” Father Pietro spat, “Is there no honor for a vow left in the men of Francia?” Father Pietro glared at them all, clearly offended that Treville would even suggest a thing. Ever the mediator, Aramis shifted to lean forward on the table.

“The Captain suggests no dishonor,” Aramis said, “Merely that the mission itself may be in jeopardy without knowing the contents of the chest. It does seem a bit like cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face.”

“I am immovable in this,” Father Pietro put down his wine cup but kept it clutched in both hands, “I will not disobey my orders. But we must have an emissary from Francia in our company or we will lose our one opportunity to meet with the Duke. And as you well know, the Duke is a suspicious man - a breach of our agreement will be seen as a threat by him and we will lose ground to forces that try to align Savoy against Francia. You must help me to complete my mission.” Treville sat back and raised an incredulous brow. 

“I am not likely to do anything without orders from the King,” Treville responded.

“What of the Cardinale then?” Father Pietro replied, “We sent word to him about Fratello Marco’s murder and of the presence of the Musketeer troop in Royan. I had requested of him Signore Aramis’s assistance, before Fratello Luigi suggested the dagger to have been his,” the Father flicked his gaze to Aramis and had the decency to look contrite, “My apologies again, Signore,” he said, placing a hand on his heart, “In our zealousness we wrongly accused you.” Aramis gave a conciliatory nod before lowering his head, but Treville noticed no softening in his gaze. Aramis’s skills at dissembling and deception were as valuable as Athos’s cunning and Porthos’s strategizing. None but those who knew Aramis best would think he was anything other than forgiving.

Treville sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face. He had not wanted to alert Richelieu of their presence in Royan but there was nothing to be done for it now. Certainly it would be easy enough to excuse the trip as they needed to begin provisioning for the regiment’s return to Paris but Treville was not keen on Richelieu ever knowing more than he needed to. Regardless, they would be negligent now if they did not wait on orders.

“Very well. We will delay our departure until we receive word,” Treville finally replied. Porthos stiffened beside him and Athos’s eyes widened but his men said nothing further. It was clear though that they were not agreeable to this plan. Aramis revealed nothing, his head tipped low enough that the brim of his hat left his face in shadow.

“We should hear by tomorrow,” the Father said as he pushed himself up from the table, “Our messenger rode out to La Rochelle at first light.” The Father gave a nod of his head and walked out of the inn, his two soldiers following. Athos reached for the wine bottle to refill their cups.

“You think this is wise?” Athos said as he poured, “They did just try to kill Aramis.”

“They are men of God, Athos,” Treville knew the response was poor as he held out his cup for more wine, “They would not have harmed him.”

“They didn’t look so Godly to me when they had ‘im face down in the dirt,” Porthos grumbled before tossing back the last of the wine in his cup.

“Aramis?” Athos asked, extending the bottle toward the marksman. Treville thought there was much more to the question than the offer of more wine. Aramis raised his head and gave a thin smile, holding out his cup so Athos could pour.

“You know what I miss?” Aramis said wistfully, “Soldiering. I miss a good siege where you know exactly who is on what side and where to aim your musket.” Aramis paused to take a sip, “I’m not even sure who the enemy is right now.”

“The enemy is anyone who threatens the sovereignty of France,” Treville said simply.

“But is anyone threatening France?” Aramis pressed, “We don’t even know what are in these orders.” Aramis’s sighed, “I hate following orders anyway,” he tossed back the rest of his cup and stood, “Gentlemen, I’m going to go shoot something,” Aramis gave a small half-bow and made his way to the door.

“Not Jesuits!” Athos called after him.

“Not Jesuits,” Aramis confirmed with a wave over his shoulder, but they could all hear the disappointment in his voice.

XxxMMMxxX

Within the hour Aramis’s target practice had devolved into a shooting competition between him and the Jesuit soldiers, although really there was no contest. With pistols, he had some challengers, but once Aramis picked up his arquebus only two of the Jesuits even attempted to match him and any semblance of a competition ended with the men giving up after the fourth round.

Athos and Porthos, well used to the direction any contest of firearms went when Aramis was involved, had instead set aside their doublets to engage in some light sparring. Nothing too strenuous and nothing that would distract them too much if the Jesuits got any more ideas about Aramis. While their commanding officers had deemed they would work together, both groups remained leery of the other. 

Father Pietro had taken up rooms for himself and his men at the Inn as well, perhaps in anticipation of their joining the mission, or perhaps to keep an eye on the Musketeers lest they ride off before the Cardinal’s orders could be received. It was no secret that Treville was not eager to work with the Italians. But they would do their duty and not sneak off in the night.

Porthos and Athos, working on the big man’s left-hand parries, had attracted some attention of their own. Three of the Jesuits had stopped their own practice and stood passing a bottle of wine between them and watching the two musketeers. While none in that group seemed to speak French, the few words that drifted within Athos and Porthos’s hearing held a tone that neither man liked. Nor did they appreciate their laughter at the two times Porthos overshot his reach and landed in the dirt. 

“I’m ‘bout done with this,” Porthos said as Athos pulled him up from the ground.

“Despite this last attempt, you are actually getting better,” Athos said, raising his sword up for another round.

“Nah, not the practice,” Porthos said, depositing his weapons on the table and unbuckling his sword belt,” I’m done with them” he cocked his head toward their trio of observers.

“What are you doing?” Athos asked even though he was fairly certain he knew the answer.

“If we got to work together,” Porthos said with a smile, “Then they better figure out how we fight.” Athos raised an agreeable brow and Porthos gave an anticipatory laugh.

“The same rules apply as Aramis,” Athos called to Porthos as he turned to the Jesuits, “Don’t kill them.” Porthos gave Athos a mischievous glance over his shoulder before approaching the men. They had realized early on that none of the Italians spoke much French and Porthos could manage Italian about as effectively as he could speak hummingbird. Nevertheless he still made himself quite clear.  
“Hey,” Porthos called out, waving at the trio of men laughing as he approached, “Yeah, you three,” his smile was broad and welcoming, “Let’s say we go a few rounds,” he knew it was likely they didn’t completely understand him, but Porthos filled in by gesturing at one of the men and waving him forward, then tapping at his own chest and nodding encouragingly as he raised his fists. 

It seemed there was a universal language for brawling that Porthos was privy to as one of the soldiers pushed his companion to step forward. The man said something in Italian and they all laughed, Porthos included although he had no idea what they had said. The man took a swig of wine and then passed the bottle to his friends, rolling up his sleeves as he approached Porthos. 

Porthos nodded encouragingly, but he was hardly done. He gestured to another of the Jesuits, encouraging him to join his friend. Two on one might not seem honorable, but Porthos was a big man and two men actually might make it a fair fight. At least that’s what the Italians seemed to think as another peeled off his doublet to join his companion. Athos shook his head, knowing what was coming next and not envying the bruising those men were about to take.

They glanced at each other and then with a howling battle cry made the mistake of rushing at Porthos. Big as he was, Porthos was still quick. He sidestepped easily to let one of them stumble past him while he caught the other one around the waist and used his own momentum against him to throw him heavily to the side. While the first struggled to rise, the second man twisted and came at Porthos’s back with a two-handed blow that never met its mark. Porthos had the man up and over his shoulders in a blink and with a hearty laugh tossed the soldier into a pile of hay. He turned back in time to see the other man readying a fist to the face. He caught the punch with ease and then pulled the soldier into a hold against his chest, spinning around in time for him to receive a punch in the gut from his companion. Porthos laughed again as his human shield grunted and doubled over. Athos was regretting they had not thought to wager before the brawl began.

“He fight like un cane . . . a dog,” the Jesuit who had put his boot to Aramis’s throat had shifted to stand beside Athos, “No discipline.” 

“He fights like he is about to beat them,” the derisive snort from the soldier let Athos know the man had enough French to have understood him.

“All Musketeers are dogs,” the man continued, “You would be dead now if your Capitano did not save you.” Athos knew he was being baited. He decided he didn’t care. He turned to face the Jesuit and gave a small bow.

“Perhaps you need some practice as well?” Athos gave an efficient salute with his rapier, an invitation in any language to engage in a duel. The Jesuit smiled darkly and returned the salute, clearly eager for a chance at a musketeer. They raised their weapons took a fighting stance, each circling the other to sense their movement style. Athos noted the tautness in the man’s grip but also the fluidity in which he shifted over the ground. This would be a good match.

It was Athos who made the first lunge, looking more to see the man’s reaction than thinking he was likely to score a hit. The Jesuit was quick, raising his main gauche to an efficient parry, while spinning into the move with enough momentum to try a thrust of his own. Athos disengaged his blade from the parry easily and sidestepped the thrust, but now he knew the Jesuit had both training and talent. The move had been graceful, something Aramis might have executed, and smart. Turning defense to offense was the sign of an experienced soldier as well.

Their exchange of thrusts and parries became a ballet, graceful and precise as two well-matched opponents took measure of each other. Athos, despite his original motivations in engaging with the Jesuit brother, began to enjoy himself. It was not often he got to spar with someone equal to his skill level. Aramis was a fine swordsman but still more full of tricks than skill while Porthos had only just taken up the rapier a few years ago and used his brute strength more than anything else to get to a victory. While he worked to teach them both, they were also familiar in their patterns and choices. This was a tremendous help in battle together as each knew what the other would do, but in sparring, it was not always enough to truly challenge Athos. This man was forcing him to think, to focus, to react and to analyze. Athos was deeply happy.

The sparring match turned into a serious assault in the blink of an eye. Athos had parried against a series of rhythmic attacks designed to force him to eventually drop his defenses as blow upon blow rained down from his opponents rapier. Athos’s strength and stamina was more than up to the challenge and after the fourth overhand attack Athos had smartly predicted the onset of the next and executed a forward roll that brought him up inside his opponent’s guard, main gauche pressed along his neck. The position for a killing strike would be considered a victory but as this was just a spar, Athos instead gave a satisfied smile and shoved the man away far enough to beckon him forward for another attack. His opponent’s face transformed from the smug competence he had portrayed earlier to an undeniable fury. With a roar he rushed at Athos and the musketeer suddenly found himself engaged in a serious fight.

The Jesuit swordsman pressed Athos hard, forcing the Musketeer to take the defensive against a pounding assault. No longer using his main gauche as a parrying dagger, the priest was wielding it as one might a second rapier, looking to push past Athos’s defenses and strike a serious blow. Had they been in leathers it would not have presented much of a threat as the sleeve of Atho’s doublet would have afforded him protection against a slice in the wrong place, but in shirtsleeves it proved effective. The blade cut into Athos’s forearm with a deep and painful bite, drawing a yell from the musketeer. The Jesuit turned heel, giving his blade a hard flourish as Athos caught his breath and pressed his hand over the cut. Thinking the man had gained his retaliation for his earlier stroke to the neck, Athos took his swaggered retreat as an end of the battle. Athos was angry enough to continue but disciplined enough to know that unless they stopped now, one of them would be seriously injured or dead. Athos had lowered his blade when the Jesuit turned and came at him again. 

Reflexes and years of battle are what saved him. Athos was not ready to parry so instead ducked low and slipped beneath the Jesuit’s wild thrust and caught him round the waist. He used his weight and momentum to bring them both to the ground, the impact sending both of the Jesuits blades out of his hands. He scrambled to recover them, but Athos caught hold of his boot and ignominiously dragged him out of reach of his weapons before regaining his own rapier and pressing the blade to the base of the man’s throat. 

“Athos!” The command cut through blood lust pounding in the swordsman’s brain. Athos hesitated, fighting his own desire for revenge with his position as a musketeer. As a Comte he would have been within his rights to kill the man who had drawn his noble blood. But as a soldier these choices were no longer his.

“Athos, stand down!” Captain Treville called again. Athos gave his opponent a feral smile before flicking his rapier away, leaving a small trail of blood across the Jesuit’s neck. The message was clear about how close the priest had come to meeting his God.

Knowing better now than to turn his back on this man, Athos backed away a few steps. Porthos and Aramis were at his side immediately as two of the Jesuit’s comrades rushed to help their man up. Father Pietro strode over to his men, clearly livid. While they did not understand all of the words, the tone and gestures were familiar in any language - the Capitano was chewing out his men. Athos expected the same himself as he sat heavily on the bench in the courtyard, taking a cup of wine from Porthos and letting Aramis fuss at his bloody sleeve.

“You were going to kill him,” Treville was surprisingly measured as he stood before Athos.

“Hmmm. . . .possibly,” Athos admitted.

“I don’t think I would have minded,” Treville said darkly before striding over to have words with Father Pietro. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance before breaking into broad grims.

“Well that was unexpected,” Aramis said as he looked at Athos’s wound.

“Which? The fight or Treville?” Athos said around his cup.

“Both, mon ami,” Aramis replied, “You are usually the level-headed one and Treville is usually not so lenient regarding brawling.”

“Just ‘cause he don’t have your knack for attracting trouble doesn’t make him level-headed,” Porthos smirked, “He just has less opportunity.” Aramis gave a little shrug of agreement as he dabbed at Athos’s arm. The wound was not very deep but it was still bleeding and had cut a long track in Athos’s forearm. “It’s Treville that surprised me,” Porthos continued, “That man never misses a chance to yell. He loves it.”

“It is not as if I started it,” Athos said flatly.

“You can’t say that when you asked him to spar you weren’t thinking you’d like to get in a few hits after what he’d done? Or that Treville wasn’t proud of it.” Porthos gave Athos a knowing look.

“Don’t confuse my motivations with your own,” Athos answered but the twinkle in his eye told Porthos he was right. The big man chuckled and gave the swordsman a friendly clap on the shoulder.

“Athos, were you defending my honor?’ Aramis mocked, “That’s quite gallant but hardly necessary. Especially if you plan to do it this badly,” Aramis teased.

“Badly?” Porthos snorted, “Did you see that fight? Athos is a genius - that roll - he learned that from me.” Porthos beamed and Athos gave a little nod, because yes, he had definitely added some of Porthos’s moves into his repertoire even as he was working with the brawler to improve his swordsmanship.

“Be that as it may,” Aramis said, this time more seriously, “It was hardly necessary on my account.”

“Necessary, no.” Athos said catching Aramis’s eye, “Desired? Yes, very much so. An attack on one of us is an attack on all of us. Hopefully they are now aware of this.”

“Still, Athos, it is not worth . . .” Athos cut off Aramis’s words by rising from his seat and gripping the man’s shoulder.

“Do not attempt to argue the limits of your value,” Athos said, “Or define the lengths I will take to preserve the honor of this regiment,” Aramis’s eyes grew warm as he dipped his head in acknowledgement of Athos’s words, “Can we finish sewing me up somewhere less public,” Athos asked, his gaze shifting to where the Jesuits were huddled under the shade of the apple tree clearly talking about the musketeers on the other side of the courtyard, “I feel like they are plotting their next move.”

“Let them try,” Porthos said with a grin as he cracked his knuckles, “There’s days of fun in this.” Athos gave Porthos a cautioning glance while Aramis burst out into a laugh. As they made their way inside to get needle and thread and another bottle of wine, the three musketeers discussed some plots of their own.


	5. Remotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting, but the internet was not very cooperative while I was on vacation. Thank you so much for the comments and kudos! It means so much to any fic writer to know that people actually read and like a fic. 
> 
> This chapter is not beta-read so please forgive the errors. My spelling is horrible!

Word came from the Cardinal toward the end of the next day. Porthos had convinced two of the Jesuits to try their hands at a game of cards and was smugly piling up a stack of Italian coins at one end of the table in the courtyard. He wasn’t sure what they were worth but he figured having a bigger pile than his opponents was generally considered winning. Aramis was at the other end of the table, cleaning their pistols. 

He glanced at the marksman knowing that Aramis had developed an unhealthy obsession about the state of his weapons during their last mission. But his friend looked at ease as he checked and filed the barrels of their small arsenal. He was not consumed with the task as he had been during their two-week assignment to the Cardinal, but rather he was relaxing. His occasional wink at Porthos over the heads of the Italians showed he was entertained. Not that Porthos could understand how that boring job could be considered preferable to joining him in a round of cards, but to each his own he supposed.

Athos for his part was seated in the shade in the doorway of the stables almost to the end of the second bottle of wine for the afternoon. His hat was low and his face inscrutable. Porthos knew the man was capable of sitting there well into the night, drinking until he passed out on the spot unless one of them intervened to take him to his rooms. Not on missions - on missions he was focused and vigilant, his awareness of his companions, the environment, the potential threats never compromised. He did not seem to sleep. But with time on his hands it appeared wine was the only way to still whatever thoughts pursued the swordsman’s peace. Porthos couldn’t fault him for it. Everyman had demons and every man had the sins they fought them with. 

As involved in their own activities as they were, when a rider trotted into the courtyard on a dusty horse, their eyes instinctively found each other. Athos shifted slightly on the bench, feet now firmly planted on the ground in case he he needed to move quickly. Aramis seamlessly moved from cleaning a pistol to loading one, the relaxed smile on his face never fading. Porthos shifted his cards to his left hand, his right hand dropping to his lap within easy reach of the knife tucked into the top of his boot. There wasn’t a direct threat from the rider, this was simply how these men responded to anything. Watching, careful and in tune with each other. No one else in the courtyard noticed the change but the three individual men had become a team in the blink of an eye.

They tracked the man as he dismounted, one of his companions calling the stable boy over and directing the rider to Father Pietro where he stood in deep conversation with another of their number. The man passed papers to his commander and after a brief conversation the three of them made their way into the inn where Treville had commandeered a table for the paperwork that had followed him even to Royan. He might be away from his regiment but they were still his responsibility to lead.

Porthos gave a glance to Athos, looking for a sign if he should follow or not, but Athos gave a slight shake to his head. They would wait then. It was a few minutes but then the three Jesuits emerged from the inn and called their men over just as Treville appeared momentarily in the doorway.

“You three. In here. Now,” Treville’s bark gave Porthos a chuckle. It was the same no matter where they found themselves. As he stood from the table he took a moment to carefully scoop his winnings into his big hands, to the chagrin of the Jesuits who had perhaps misinterpreted what a “friendly” game meant. Porthos gave them a sympathetic shrug as they went off to meet their commander but it didn’t stop him from pocketing the coins.

“What do you think?” Aramis asked with a glance toward the inn as the marksman returned Porthos his now spotlessly clean pistols.

“He ain’t happy,” Porthos offered as he slipped his weapons back on his belt.

“When is he ever?” Aramis replied as he did the same.

“Speculation will get us nowhere,” Athos’s voice was dry as dust as he took up his pistols from the table and led the way into the inn.

They arranged themselves in front of Treville much as they would have at the garrison. Athos in the center and Porthos and Aramis flanking him. Their posture was casual but it didn’t erase the tension the men felt. Orders from Richelieu had not been welcoming news as of late. Treville ignored them for a moment as he stood rummaging through the papers on the table. Porthos was not sure how the man had managed to accumulate so much in so short a time. He spared a glance to Aramis who rocked back on his heels and gave a small shrug. Athos was right, they could not guess the situation they would have to wait. Treville found what he was looking for and slipped a small map from the piles to lay atop of everything else on the desk.

“Aramis,” Treville said, leaning with both hands on the table but looking up at the marksman, “You are temporarily assigned to Father Pietro’s command by the order of the Cardinal.” Treville’s measured words shattered whatever peace or respite they had found in the last few days. Porthos found himself surging forward.

“Cap’n that’s not right!” Porthos couldn’t help his outburst. Athos laid a hand to his arm and Porthos clamped down on his jaw to prevent himself from speaking further. He was angry, but he took a step back to allow Athos to move forward. 

“You can’t tell me that you support this,” Athos said, his tone dangerously reasonable.

“I have no choice,” Treville replied, standing his ground, “Under normal circumstances the Cardinal has no authority over the men in my ranks, but we are at war and the Cardinal is general in the field. Aramis must obey his orders.”

“We know where this leads,” Athos’s calm was deceptive, and Porthos knew the swordsman was at his most dangerous. Nor did Athos make idle threats. They had been prepared to leave their pauldrons behind before and they were united in doing so. No further conversation between the three of them was needed.

“You need to trust me,” Porthos could tell Treville was biting back his anger as he stared down his Lieutenant.

Porthos watched as Athos considered Treville’s words. Nothing changed on his face but when the swordsman glanced to Porthos there was a question in his eyes. Athos would know Porthos’s mind in this. He considered. Angry as he was at being forced back under the Cardinal’s thumb, in his heart Porthos was a Musketeer and he had put his faith in Treville the day he took up his pauldron. He would trust him in this. He gave Athos a tilt of the head, acknowledging his willingness to listen to their commander. Porthos would have liked to have known Aramis’s opinion, but at Treville’s words he had turned from them, hands on his hips, head hung low. No one in the room knew what the marksman was thinking as the still form gave no other outward sign. That he hadn’t stormed out of the room at least gave Porthos some hope.

“What do you propose,” Athos asked on their behalf.

“While the Cardinal’s orders stand, I still have authority in this region as the commander of the King’s regiment,” Treville said quietly, “With special autonomy in cases where the threat to the sovereignty is dire. I deem this to be one of those cases. We’ll be accompanying Aramis.”

“We?” Athos did not miss the use of the word.

“Yes, I’m going. As Aramis’s commanding officer, I insisted,” Treville said, “I am certain, had the Cardinal been aware of my presence in the area, he himself would have insisted I join the Jesuit force. I explained this to Father Pietro.” Porthos highly doubted that the Cardinal would have rearranged his plans to include Treville. But the Jesuits didn’t need to know that.

“I take it from the look on his face when he left here, Father Pietro was not in agreement,” Athos raised a brow.

“I suggested he write again to the Cardinal for clarification but that would mean they risk missing the rendezvous with the Duke of Savoy as they wait on a response,” Treville cocked his head, “Apparently he liked that idea even less.” Treville shifted some of the papers on the table and picked up a small golden key attached to a fine chain.

“This unlocks the chest that Father Pietro carries,” Treville explained, “His instructions are to open it when we make camp in the forest near Saint-Medard-en-Jalles. It had been in Brother Marcos’s care and the Cardinal has left explicit instructions it be passed to Aramis. The three of us will ride out with them in the morning to serve as escort to Bordeaux and to represent France in the treaty negotiation.”

“Three of us?” Porthos didn’t like the sound of that, “Who’s not going?”

“You,” Treville responded, “I have another mission for you.”

They all stiffened at Treville’s words, even Aramis lifted his head to rejoin the conversation. Treville thrust a packet of papers toward Porthos. “This goes to Calais,” Porthos took the documents, turning the neat bundle in his hand. The ink was still fresh on the first one in the stack, but the others looked like they had been prepared earlier. Porthos cocked his head as he pieced it together.

“The regiment,” Porthos said.

“These are the orders for a march to Bordeaux,” Treville explained,his finger tapping the location on the map, “You will be almost a day behind us, so you will need to make up the time.”

“The regiment can’t travel that quickly,” Athos interjected, “They need to provision. They’ll lose half a day at least.”

“No they cannot,” Treville replied, “But of all my men, Porthos can, once he’s delivered the orders.”

“You don’t expect the treaty negotiation to go well,” Athos did not phrase it as a question.

“I don’t know what to expect with the Medici’s involved,” Treville answered, “But I know enough to be prepared,” Treville looked over the men, something hard and determined in his eyes. 

XxxMMMxxX

There was enough daylight left on a late summer day that if Porthos left soon he could get at least a few hours of riding in before he had to stop for the night. When every hour counted, he would make use of all of them. The contingent from Royan would be departing at first light and it was only a day’s ride to Bordeaux, albeit a long day. It was a day to Calais as well, and then nearly a day from there to Bordeaux. Porthos would need to use every available hour if he was to rejoin them in time for the meeting with the Duke. An exchange with the Duke’s aide was scheduled first and depending on how that went, a meeting with the Duke would follow. Exactly when that would be would be determined by the aide, assuming he found the Jesuits’ offer to be worthy of the Duke’s attention and the presence of the Musketeers enough to ensure the Duke’s safety.

Porthos entered the stable, arms loaded down with provisions he had traded the Italian coins for. He suspected that the innkeeper had gotten the better side of the deal, but he didn’t really have the time to bargain. It rankled him to have to concede so readily, but needs must given the circumstances. Porthos entered his horse’s stall, not surprised to see him already tacked up.

“How long are you planning to be gone,” Aramis called out from the other side of the beast where he was probably checking the girth strap, “That’s enough food for two men.”

“I like to be prepared,” Porthos said sheepishly, looking at the bundles in his hands.

“For what?” Aramis made his way around the horse and started to relieve Porthos of the bread and cheese, “An impromptu rendezvous with wood nymphs on the way to Calais?” Porthos gave Aramis a dirty look as the marksman began shoving the foodstuffs into his saddle bags, but despite the outward grumbling at being teased he was grateful that Aramis’s sense of humor had not deserted him. In fact, once they had left Treville and started to provision Porthos for the trip, Aramis’s dark mood had lifted considerably.

Porthos moved to the other side of the horse so he could slip the two bottles of wine he carried into the padded leather pouch he kept for just that purpose. Then he began to give his pack one last check, making sure he had weapons, powder, balls and fuses along with flints, a whetstone, bandages and strong spirits for cleansing wounds. 

“I’ll have better company in the woods alone than you will have with those Jesuits,” Porthos said, “They are dull and sour to a man.”

“Porthos, as usual, you have misjudged them,” Aramis answered as he tried to stuff a small wheel of cheese into an even smaller bag.

“Misjudged?” Porthos protested, “You weren’t saying that yesterday morning.” 

“It was a misunderstanding,” Aramis said lightly, “I’ve spoken to Father Pietro. They were distraught. I might have done the same if it was one of you.” 

“You’re being suddenly nice about it,” Porthos repacked his powder, carefully wrapping the tin in oilcloth to keep it dry, “What are you up to.”

“Nothing,” Aramis said with a sigh, leaning a hand on the pommel of the saddle, “I’m tired of being suspicious. Of expecting ulterior motives. It was just a mistake, can we leave it at that?”

Porthos looked at his friend from over the back of the horse. Aramis had an air of resignation about him that Porthos did not like. The marksman seemed to be bouncing from mood to mood at the drop of a hat and it was impossible to know which of them was true. Unless perhaps they all were. It was naive to think that just a few days rest would erase what the three of them had been forced to do by Rochefort and the Cardinal. Even with Treville’s intervention and Porthos’s deep trust in the Captain, he himself still feel restless, unable to reconcile fully that by doing the job of a good soldier and he had in fact not acted as an honorable man. A significant part of Porthos’s life had been spent being as far from honorable as a man might get, but that was behind him. He had committed fully to his life as a Musketeer and a new way of thinking about honor, duty and loyalty. A chord that ran so deeply he had left all friends behind in the Court of Miracles and not returned since. He would never return there. Yet what of his honor now? No, Porthos was not settled at all and it was foolish to think Aramis would be any better off.

“Sure,” Porthos said with a sigh, “Just watch. your back. I’m not there to do it for you.” Aramis nodded, the look on his face enough to tell Porthos that he was still not happy with the Captain’s decision to split them up.

“You are all set,” Aramis said with a last tug at one of the straps of Porthos’s bedroll, “Try not to get lost.” 

“Try not to get killed,” Porthos huffed back but the smile they shared was genuine. Neither might like this plan, but that wasn’t reason enough to to dampen their spirits when it came to each other. In fact, the more dire the situation, the more likely Aramis and Porthos would find a way to laugh at it. Hopefully they’d be doing that together again in three days times no worse for the wear other than Athos most likely having drunk their entire provision of wine.

XxxMMMxxX

Aramis and Athos said their farewells to Porthos in the courtyard just before he mounted up. Treville watched them from the doorway of the inn as Porthos pulled Aramis in for a back-thumping embrace. Athos then gripped Porthos’s forearm and clasped his shoulder before, suprisingingly to Treville, they pressed their foreheads together so Athos could say something. Whatever it was earned the swordsman a shove and brought a hearty laugh from Aramis. Porthos tried to look angry, but Treville could see the barely suppressed smile as the big man mounted up. He said something softly back to Athos that caused more laughter then he straightened in the saddle and took up the reins. Porthos caught sight of Treville and gave a small wave and the Captain dipped his head in acknowledgement before the musketeer guided his horse out of the gate. Athos and Aramis watched him go, then Aramis put a hand over Athos’s shoulder and led him toward the table and, of course, another bottle of wine.

Treville considered joining them. It was not unheard of for him to drink with him men from time to time and those two were among his favorites. But it seemed wrong. Bad enough he had sent Porthos off and taken what was rightfully his place on the mission, but to now take his spot at the table seemed callous. He had no doubt that Athos and Aramis would welcome him warmly, but he himself did not feel it was his place to take. 

Treville had not shown the orders to his men, not even to Athos, but the Cardinal had been very specific in his instructions regarding Aramis and the pairing of him with Father Pietro. Richelieu had spoken of the marksman’s skill with a musket along with his reported devotion to god and king. He suggested that he would be the perfect replacement for Brother Marcos, able to fulfill his duties as an agent of France. He insisted the key to the chest be passed to Aramis and no other. Marcos had been the Cardinal’s man positioned in this company and now Richelieu saw fit to elect Aramis to his place. Treville knew his men trusted him, but since he did not trust the Cardinal was he again betraying their faith? Treville sighed and raked a hand through his hair. No, he would not join his men for a drink, but he knew there was a bottle of wine waiting for him alongside his maps and papers. Tonight the cloak of command felt particularly heavy.


	6. Rumination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who has left kudos or comments. I really appreciate every single one of you. Thanks also to Issai who is the best beta-reader a girl could ask for. I take full ownership of all of the errors!

Aramis was restless. He had considered another visit to Madame Chevreuse but a stern command from the Captain that he and Athos be ready for an early departure tomorrow and remain on their best behavior tonight quashed that idea. They each knew what the Captain meant. For Athos, he had taken his wine to his room, for Aramis, his wings were clipped and he was to remain at the inn. Without Porthos to goad him into some mischief at cards, or Athos’s conversation, or the Madame’s welcoming bed, Aramis’s mind could find no distractions from his own troubled thoughts. 

The late summer sun had set about an hour ago and Aramis sat at the table in the courtyard thinking of things far away from Royan and the distant echo of the disturbing sea. Porthos would have made camp by now, as the last of the sun’s light died, and Aramis smirked as he remembered his comment about the wood nymphs. If only it were such, Porthos of all people deserved it. He’d had enough lonely nights in his past, of that Aramis was sure even if he was not sure of the details. He knew Porthos would much prefer to be in someone’s company than to be alone, although he was more than capable of taking care of himself. They all were though, he, Porthos and Athos, they were more than capable alone. They just chose to be together and for that Aramis was routinely grateful. 

With a small sigh Aramis tugged at a thin leather thong that hung around his neck and pulled out the small wooden cross he wore tucked in his doublet. It was a delicate carving from a bit of an olive tree, something his mother had taken with her when she left Spain and had then given it to him long ago when he had left her care to join the household of his father. It was one of the few things he had taken with him when he had run off to join the infantry. The wood was warm in his hand as he held it and closed his eyes. The words of the prayer came to him without bidding. He whispered them quietly in Spanish first, as his mother had taught him, then in French as that is how he prayed for his comrades and brothers, and finally softly in Latin, for that was how he prayed for himself when he was at his most troubled:

Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary,  
that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection,  
implored your help, or sought your intercession,  
was left unaided.  
Inspired by this confidence,  
I fly unto you, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother.  
To you do I come, before you I stand, sinful and sorrowful.  
O Mother of the Word Incarnate,  
despise not my petitions,  
but in your mercy, hear and answer me.  
Amen.

Finishing the third repetition, Aramis was dismayed. This prayer soothed his spirit like no other but tonight it seemed powerless to vanquish the doubts crowding his mind. Aramis sighed and was about to begin again when a soft cough from nearby interrupted his thoughts. His eyes flew open and his hand shifted to his rapier, already admonishing himself for having been caught in the open unawares. 

“Mi scusi,” Father Pietro said, holding out his empty hands and giving Aramis a respectful nod of his head, “I did not mean to startle you.” Aramis released a soft sigh and immediately relaxed, recognizing there was no threat from the priest standing before him.

“My apologies as well,” Aramis said formally, “It was instinct that brought my hands to my weapon. I mean you no harm.” Father Pietro gave him a friendly smile.

“It is easy to come to the wrong conclusions when there is so much unknown,” he said kindly, “But please, I did not mean interruptions to you. I heard the Latin of the Memoare and thought to listen.”

“It’s alright, Padre,” Aramis smiled in return, “I don’t think it is a sin for a priest to eavesdrop on your payers. Perhaps even it is a blessing.”

“That is a powerful prayer you offer,” Father Pietro said, taking a few steps closer, “Are you troubled, mio figlio? Do you wish to make your confession?” Aramis sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“Grazie, Padre,” He said with a respectful dip of his head, “But no, I have made my confession. What I seek is not absolution for that has been offered but rather intercession.”

“Your circumstances I do not know,” Father Pietro said with a small frown, “But I would say that the Lord asks us to follow him in all things and if you do so in good conscious then intercession is already yours.”

“How do you reconcile it, Padre,” Aramis turned the topic, but it was the thing most on his mind, “Being a soldier with being a priest? Surely there are times when you cannot be both?”

“If I raise my sword in the service of God, then there is no conflict,” Father Pietro said simply.

“But it is men, not God, who issue your orders,” Aramis replied, “They cannot always be right in the choices they make.”

“No, the decisions are not always right,” Father Pietro said thoughtfully, “But the intention always is. God knows our hearts so He knows that for me, my heart tries to follow His commands. I go to mass, I say my prayers and I put my sword in God’s hands, a weapon to Him as surely as His angels are.”

“Have your orders lead you to commit acts that you know to be unjust?” Aramis asked trying to keep the bitterness he felt over his own orders from leaching into his voice.

“I have done things I have not been certain of,” Father Pietro said hesitantly, clearly searching for an appropriate answer, “But my certainty is not required, only my obedience. Is that not like any other soldier?”

“Obedience has never been my best quality,” Aramis said with a shy smile.

“Perhaps then, mio figlio, that is what you should be praying for,” Father Pietro said with a shrug, “If you give yourself to obedience then you surrender all doubt to God. You do not have the need to question if you empty yourself to be a vessel of the Lord.” Aramis sighed and ran a hand through his hair, pausing to rub at the base of his neck as he looked up at the priest through his unruly hair.

“I’m not so skilled in surrender either, Father,” Aramis felt shame creep hot into his cheeks, “I’m stubborn, defiant, willful - all things I tried to tell to Brother Marcos when he asked me to join the order. I’m not fit for God - I’m barely fit for soldiering sometimes.”

“I see your restlessness, Fratello Marcos did as well,” Father Pietro looked at him kindly, not with the chastisement he had expected, “He spoke to me of your conversations about scripture and of your disillusionment with being a Musketeer. I encouraged him to speak with you about our order and I would welcome more discussion with you if you are so inclined. I understand the yoke of obedience is often seen as a burden, but in truth, it is a release. This is the lesson we all learn before we take our vows. That I wield my weapons through the will of God means I do not suffer the trials of doubt.”

“You feel nothing when you take a life?” Aramis was taken aback, that ruthlessness was not expected.

“No, mio figlio, you misunderstand,” Father Pietro put a gentle hand on his shoulder, “We are sorrowful for the lives we take, even if the cause is just and the Lord has asked it of is. We can never rejoice in the suffering of others.”

“I didn’t find your men so generous or forgiving yesterday,” Aramis challenged.

“Well, we are not without faults,” Father Pietro chuckled, “Brother Luigi in particular has many. In fact, you both might be good companions as his struggles would be tempered by yours and yours by his I suspect.” The evening bells rang out, punctuating Father Pietro’s statement. Aramis could not decide if they were a sign of approval, or of warning.

“I go to celebrate Compline with my brethren before we retire,” Father Pietro said, “Join us. We offer again the prayers for Fratello Marcos. You said yesterday you were troubled by his death, come then with me to pray for his soul and for his place in heaven.” 

Aramis considered the priest’s offer. He felt just as unsettled as he had before their conversation, as he had in the last several days. An hour in prayer with the Jesuits was appealing - an opportunity to tether himself back to the things he knew were important. Aramis found attending mass as uplifting an experience as spending the night with a beautiful woman was a grounding one. He gave the priest a smile and gestured for him to lead the way.

XxxMMMxxX

They left just after first light as planned, but not without some disagreement about the route first. Their journey from Royan to Saint-Medard-en-Jalles required them to follow the course of the Garonne River. They could either cross at Royan and follow the western bank or follow the eastern bank and delay their crossing until Macau. Porthos had taken the eastern route as he journeyed toward Chalais. The Musketeers preferred the crossing at Macau as the roads were better on the eastern side and if Porthos had run into any difficulty the night before they would likely find some sign. Brother Luigi strongly advised the western side, where the roads were through thick forest and low hills. Their journey would be slower, but more concealed and with more opportunity to take alternative pathways should they suspect they were being followed. 

Treville was skeptical but given the murder of Brother Marcos, he could not deny that someone was trying to impede the Jesuits’ mission. Still, the passion with which the man pressed for the western route seemed excessive and though none of the musketeers spoke much Italian, Aramis could understand enough to know that Brother Luigi had had a heated argument with Father Pietro regarding the route. Ultimately the priest gave in to Luigi and the Musketeers had no choice but to go along. The Cardinal’s orders had put the Jesuits in charge, although Treville would step in if at any point the choices the priest made put his men in an unnecessary danger. But as they mounted up, Athos had shared a look with Treville and he knew the swordsman was just as suspicious of Brother Luigi’s motives as he was. They would be keeping an eye on him. 

Treville had attempted to broach with Father Pietro that Brother Marcos could have been killed by one of his own comrades but the priest had shut down the conversation at the first suggestion of betrayal within his ranks. Treville admired the priest’s loyalty to his men and he shared the same faith in his own, but to not even consider the possibility after murder had been committed seemed short-sighted to the Musketeer captain. Blind loyalty was not a virtue in anyone as far as Treville was concerned.

They were delayed again just at the ferry when Brother Giovanni’s horse dropped a shoe. The soft-spoken man seemed ashamed of the circumstance but assured them that he knew of a blacksmith just two streets away from the ferry landing. He urged them to continue on and he would catch up but Father Pietro preferred to wait the hour and not reduce the number of their company any further. This brought more arguments from Brother Luigi, but this time, Father Pietro would not be swayed.

Aramis bought a sack of apples from a fruit vendor at the dock and shared them with Athos and Treville. They stood in the shade beside their horses a few paces from the Jesuits who formed their own cluster beneath the sheltering trees. Brother Luigi stood apart from everyone, rummaging in his saddlebags for something and sending scowls toward the three musketeers.

“If he could wither us with a glance I believe he would,” Aramis said around a bite of apple.

“Is it a hatred of all musketeers, or just us?” Athos wondered.

“He is the one who accused Aramis of murder,” Treville said, “I doubt he has let that go simply because he was told to.”

“Jesuits are unruly,” Athos was dismissive, “I would have expected more discipline and less dissension from men of God. And more humility.”

“Tell that to the Cardinal,” Aramis said with a mirthless smile, “Besides, you cannot say that musketeers are any better.”

“We’re not supposed to be better,” Athos shrugged, “We’re not priests.”

“That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t appreciate a little less arguing,” Treville gave his men one of his trademark glares.

“Captain, your long-suffering patience is a blessing to us all,” Aramis’s sarcasm brought a true smile to the other men. Treville started to offer a rebuke, but Aramis tossed him an apple and changed the subject. “What do you think are the orders locked in the box?”

“And why was the Cardinal so adamant that Aramis carry the key?” Athos added.

Treville sighed. He had been wondering that himself. “The terms of the treaty would have been carefully negotiated in order for Rome to unite Spain with France. I suspect secrecy is crucial. Nor is it surprising that the key is held by one side and the box the other. With the loss of his man, Aramis would be the Cardinal’s logical choice given the request he received from Father Pietro. Let’s not read more into it than necessary.” Even as Treville said the words he had difficulty believing them himself. But it would do no good to further the anxiety of his men with no cause. 

“Where are the Spanish in all this then?” Athos asked.

“We are to meet them at Saint-Medard-en-Jalles,” Treville explained, “I would not be surprised if they hold another part of the treaty. Our biggest concern though is that whoever killed Brother Marcos, may know exactly where we are headed. If so, they are likely to seek another opportunity to disrupt this treaty.”

“That’s assuming Brother Marcos’s death was even connected to this,” Aramis said, his eyes narrowing, “We have no evidence of that. It could have been the work of nothing more than a common cutpurse. I don’t like that we learned nothing before we left.”

“Given the Medici dagger, we have to assume that his murder was at their hands,” Athos said, “All of this intrigue and secrecy speaks to them.”

“So what then do we do?” Aramis said, “Ride out and hope we spot an ambush before it happens?”

“If someone knew enough to kill Brother Marcos, who was the Cardinal’s emissary, they may know enough to want to kill you too,” Athos said. His voice was calm and confident but Treville did not miss the softness in his eyes as he looked at Aramis, “I suspect we will need to watch your back as much as we watch the road.” Athos gave Aramis a look that Treville could not decipher, but it brought a smile to the marksman’s lips. Apparently, he appreciated Athos’s concern.

“You think it’s one of the Jesuits,” Aramis was not asking a question. Athos gave a nod.

“It would have been very difficult for an outsider to get close enough to Brother Marcos to kill him, the Jesuits themselves said that,” Athos said quietly, “And it would have been highly unlikely that he, or you for that matter, would not have noticed someone following you over the last few days.”

“Also, why did whoever killed him wait so long to do so?” Treville mused, “They were here for several days before you arrived. What changed?”

“He wanted me to join them and I said no,” Aramis said, regret lining his face, “Could it be that I had something to do with his death?”

“It could,” Treville admitted reluctantly, “While you are a fine soldier, Aramis, I have never known the Jesuits to press so fervently for a recruit. They need you for some reason.”

“So was Brother Marcos killed because he failed to recruit Aramis,” Athos asked darkly, “Or because he was Richelieu’s representative and the murderer was planning to ask Richelieu for Aramis as a replacement all along?” 

Aramis let out a long sigh and looked over at the others gathered not far from them. Treville could see how it pained the marksman to think he was at the root of Brother Marcos’s death. Nor did any of them appreciate the musketeers once again being caught up in the political machinations of the Cardinal. Treville was even more convinced he was right in insisting he ride with his men and sending Porthos on to issue orders to the regiment. They might bear him some resentment for it, but the best protection he could offer them was at their sides.

“We should talk to Father Pietro,” Athos suggested.

“He won’t listen,” Treville said, “He can’t bring himself to suspect one of his own men.”

“Well then,” Aramis said, adjusting his hat on his head and taking up the bag of apples, “I suppose it is up to us then to flush the traitor out.” Aramis gave a grin and then with a cheery wave strode over to their Jesuit compatriots to offer them some apples.

“Is it possible for him to be any more reckless?” Treville huffed in annoyance. He would have preferred a discussion about their next move before Aramis took it upon himself to wade into the fray, a target possibly on his back.

“For Aramis,” Athos answered dryly, “Yes, definitely possible.” 

XxxMMMxxX

By the time they made camp for the evening, Aramis had melded easily into the company of the Jesuit soldiers. Their pace toward Saint-Medard-en-Jalles had been steady but comfortable, allowing ample opportunity for conversation which the gregarious musketeer took full advantage of. Athos sat propped against a tree, his feet resting on his bedroll as he sharpened his blades and observed Aramis in deep discussion with three of the Jesuit company. Brother Luigi still kept his distance, but Brother Giovanni and two others seemed willing to engage in friendly conversation in a blend of Italian, French and Spanish that Athos had no hope of following. Educated as he was, French and Latin were his only languages and his Latin so little used that it was of no help with the Italian. The root words of Italian and Spanish were close enough that Aramis said he could understand most of what was being said if he at least knew the topic they were discussing. It seemed the Italians could do the same with Spanish and then they used French to communicate more directly. Frankly, it gave Athos a headache but as Aramis had set his mind to flushing out the traitor, he had held nothing back in trying to communicate. Even now, as the evening grew late, the men continued their quiet conversation.

Athos set his blades aside and leaned back against the tree. His hat was pulled low over his brow despite the darkness settling around them. Anyone looking would most likely think he was asleep but something about Aramis and his companions was bothering Athos. He had watched his friend all day. Watched how wary attempts at communication gave way to genuine exchanges and unexpected laughter. It’s as if Aramis had grown lighter over the course of the day, a lightness that Athos had not seen in him since before their assignment to the Cardinal three weeks ago. Athos had excused himself from their evening prayers, taking instead the opportunity to patrol their campsite, but it was clear Aramis already had a place among them as they recited the Latin mass. They had been friends for nearly two years, their relationship formed and tested in the Huguenot campaigns and at the siege of La Rochelle and yet Athos felt Aramis might keep riding when it was time for the Jesuits to head to the Italian border. He wished Porthos were here - their jovial friend would have been more than willing to join Aramis at the fire with the Italians and something about him seemed to tether the three of them together, to ground them in their friendship. Porthos made everything easier.

Treville seemed oblivious to Aramis’s affinity to the priest clan, or at least not worried by it. After supper he had sought out Father Pietro and they too remained locked in quiet conversation. They had a map spread between them and Athos knew that as Treville’s second he could easily join them as they planned the journey for tomorrow, but he chose instead his solitary watch of the camp and of their marksman. Setting aside his personal concerns, Athos turned over the puzzle of the orders in the box and Aramis’s strange role in their mission. Was it just happenstance that they had met the Jesuits in Royan, an unplanned trip for them, or had someone been watching them all along and sent the Jesuits there to find them - or more specifically Aramis? They certainly had connected with them quickly and Brother Marcos had taken a specific interest. Had the marksman been a target all along? The only connection could be through the Cardinal. If they had pursued the people Rochefort had identified on his list, it is possible their route would have led them right to Royan anyway. Could all of this be connected? Again Athos wished for Porthos’s company. His strategic mind was a complement to Athos’s cunning and together, they could usually puzzle out anything. With Aramis’s steady access to information and gossip, and his innate understanding of human nature the three of them together seemed almost unnatural in their ability to root out deception and unmask intrigue. They were a powerful combination and Athos felt the frown that creased his brow as he looked at their marksman sitting among his new companions. All he needed was the black leather and he could be one of them. Athos sighed. He did not like to be troubled like this. People came, people went and there was nothing left for him to have faith in when it came to relationships. So why was this bothering him?

He didn’t have time to pursue that thought as Aramis rose from the campfire and said his good nights to the Jesuits. He gave a last check to their horses, then took up his bedroll and kit and settled himself beside Athos for the night. Athos found the familiarity comforting and then immediately chided himself. Was he a child that he needed someone to sleep by his side? He couldn’t help the frustrated sigh that slipped from his lips as he kicked open his own bedroll on the ground.

“Would you rather I slept by the horses?” Aramis offered, but there was no hurt in his voice. Athos knew that he and Porthos both generally ignored whatever mood he might be in at any given time. It was a large reason they were such good friends. They knew better than to assume that Athos’s glowering had anything to do with them.

“Sleep where you want,” Athos grumbled, “Just as long as I don’t have to listen to any more Italian.”

“It’s not so bad,” Aramis said, lying back on his blanket, “It’s not as lyrical as Spanish of course, but at least it’s not German.” Athos chuckled. Dutch and German escaped both of them completely.

“For all of that talking, have you learned anything useful?” Athos asked as he settled on his back beside Aramis. A sense of deja vu crept over him. How many nights on campaign had they spent like this, laying on their backs and quietly talking away the last of the day? The only thing missing was Porthos’s snoring. He was always the first one asleep.

“About our mission, no,” the disappointment in Aramis’s voice was clear. He wanted the same answers that Athos did, “But I have learned much about them. They too leave their past behind when they join the order, all that matters is that they have taken their vows and promised to serve God and Pope above all other things. They have a vow of service but not one of poverty. Unlike other orders, they remain in the world, influencing the course of political events and promoting the policies of the Pope and the tenants of Catholicism. They are extremely loyal and try to act with honor. They are very much like Musketeers,” Aramis’s soft explanation also held a note of wistfulness, confirming Athos’s fears. The marksman was drawn to the warrior-priests. While he valued Aramis’s friendship above almost all other things, Athos knew it would be unjust to keep him back from what his heart truly desired. Something heavy seemed to drop inside his stomach. Athos was no stranger to loss but he did not welcome it.

“Why are you a Musketeer, Aramis?” For all their time in the field, this was a question he had never asked of his friend. Now it was Aramis’s turn to sigh. The marksman fidgeted, fingers pulling at the edges of the blue cloak he had pulled over himself. 

“My father wanted me for Seminary,” Aramis’s voice did not waiver but Athos could hear the sadness, “But I fell in love. I was young and so was she. Her father sent her away and I could not bear the thought of it myself, being locked behind monastery walls. I ran away and joined the infantry. My first combat was at Mountaban. We know how that went,” Aramis gave a little laugh as he rubbed lightly at his chest. Athos knew from their longtime soldiering together that there was a scar from that battle under where Aramis had placed his hand. Not Aramis’s only scar, but as it turns out, his first as a soldier. 

“And your mother?” Athos asked, “What did she want for you?” he said, thinking of his own mother — dead before he had a chance to know her as anything other than a soft voice and a tender hand. He wondered sometimes what his mother would think of his choices or if he could have even made the choice to leave Pinion knowing the shame it would have brought to her.

“A whore,” There was no irony and no bitterness in Aramis’s voice, “She was happy for me the day my father came for me. She would have liked either - priest or soldier. Anything that took me from life in a brothel.”

“You were raised in a brothel?” Athos couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. Aramis gave a wicked chuckle and turned his head toward Athos. He could see the marksman’s eyes glittering in the darkness.

“I come by my love of the female form quite honestly,” Aramis was unapologetic.

“I think this explains why you are not a priest,” Athos gently teased back.

“There are many forms of worship, mon ami,” Aramis said conspiratorially, “I am practiced in more than one.” They shared a quiet laugh together. Athos felt the heaviness in his gut dissolving. Someday he might lose Aramis to the priesthood, but not yet.


	7. Ressurection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the time to leave a comment or kudo - it really means a lot to hear from you and know that people are actually reading this fic! I try to respond to everyone but with school getting started it's hard to keep up - just please know how much I appreciate hearing from you! 
> 
> My gratitude as always to Issai for being my beta-reader, my cheerleader and the plugger of plot holes! There are lots of errors and I take full credit for them!

Porthos had made good time toward Chalais. He had squeezed almost four hours out of the first day before he stopped for the night and he anticipated catching up with the Musketeer regiment by dusk the second day. He knew that Treville and the others would be making camp at least one night before arriving at Saint-Medard-en-Jalles in the afternoon. With any luck, he would catch up with them by supper of day 3. By then they should have made contact with the emissaries from Savoy and the meeting should already be scheduled, hopefully for the day after. It was a tight window and everything would have to go exactly right if Porthos was to make it to Bordeaux before the meeting with the Duke.

But when did everything ever go exactly right? Porthos cursed his poor luck again as he led his horse along the dry, dusty road. The day wasn’t overly hot but warm enough that Porthos was sweating, uncomfortable and angry. His mount had come up lame shortly after he had taken the crossroad at Mirambeau to veer from the road paralleling the river and to head toward Chalais. He’d chosen the less direct, but broader roads for his journey as speed, not stealth, was at issue. Still, in this part of France, the towns were few and far between and he was not certain how far he would have to walk until he found a village where he could secure a new mount. He stumbled over a rut in the road and cursed. The Captain was counting on him and here he was strolling down the road and losing precious time as the sun made its slow trek across the sky.

Porthos reached for the canteen at his belt and cursed again as he remembered he had finished off the last of his water a good hour ago. He had wine in his saddlebags though and the small map Athos had pressed on him prior to his departure. With a resigned sigh, he scanned the edge of the road looking for a track or path leading through the dense scrub and underbrush that bordered the road. He needed to rest and take a moment to figure out where a town might be for him to get a horse. He found a break a few paces ahead and led his horse carefully over the slightly rougher terrain. The tack into the forest was well-traveled and wider than a deer path. Maybe there was access to water here or with even better luck a homestead nearby. The shade from the trees provided some relief from the sun, Porthos felt his spirits lifting as he caught the sound of running water. There was a river close by. Perhaps his luck was turning after all.

The track opened to a small clearing and there were signs of a recent fire and a myriad of footprints and hoof prints suggesting the place was a frequent campsite. Portos would not be staying long enough to camp, but it meant the access to water must be nearby. Hopefully, he could water his mount, fill his canteen and be back on his way quickly. He tied off his horse to a nearby branch, although he doubted she would stray far anyway. He pulled his canteens from the saddlebags and took what seemed to be the most obvious pathway toward the river. 

He rounded a bend in the trail and caught sight of the water rushing down the rocks of a small hill. Encouraged he moved forward only to stop again, this time as voices carried over the sound of the water. Porthos wasn’t anticipating any trouble from Huguenots in the area, but there could be bandits as easily as there could be other travelers here. It was best to approach with caution. He didn’t see anyone in the immediate area so he pushed carefully into the trees, off the path, to get closer. The river ran down the hill and flowed swiftly through a track that had cut deep banks on either side. There, below him, Porthos caught sight of four men, probably at the base of the path, sitting at the water's edge. They seemed well if not richly dressed and one passed a bottle of wine to another while a third had the horses to water. The fourth sat stiffly but quietly on a nearby rock and something about him was familiar to Porthos. He was too far away to get a good look at the fourth to know for sure, but nothing about the group seemed to pose a threat. In fact, he had enough coin with him that they might even be willing to exchange one of their mount’s for Porthos’s lame one and some money to offset their troubles. 

Porthos stood from the brush and was about to call out to the men when one of them laughed and shouted something at the man near the water. Porthos froze in his spot. He’d been around the Jesuits enough to recognize Italian when he heard it. Being a gambler, Porthos was good at estimating the odds - and the odds that these Italians had nothing to do with Jesuits or Medicis were slim to none as far as he was concerned. 

Carefully, he put down the canteens and took off his hat - he needed to get closer and neither of those things would help him move quietly. Staying low, he pushed his way carefully toward the circle of men gathered below him. The words were clear now, but Porthos’s command of Italian stopped at procuring a bottle of wine. He had no idea what they were saying, but what he could make out now was that the fourth man was not just sitting uncomfortably, he was bound hand and foot. And Porthos was close enough to see his features - the rather familiar ones of Bernard, a musketeer recruit the regiment had picked up about six months ago.

The situation had gone from bad to worse. Porthos could have chosen to just avoid them, but with a musketeer held hostage, there was no way he would abandon a brother. Besides, if the Italians had captured a musketeer, it had to mean they wanted something. Either they were looking for something - or someone - connected to the Musketeers. It gave Porthos no comfort that Aramis was on the other side of the river. Because if there was a search party here, there was likely one there too. And too many Italians had been interested in Aramis lately for Porthos not to think he was a likely object of their search. 

Porthos was tired, hot and frustrated already - but now he was angry too. He slipped his pistol from his holster and primed it, cursing himself for leaving the other with the horse. Too late to rectify that now, the one would have to do, along with the main gauche he slid from his belt. Three-to-one wasn’t terrible odds when it came to a fight, and he had the advantage of surprise and the high ground of the embankment. It would be easier to kill them all but Porthos needed someone left alive to question, even if he had no idea how to speak Italian. That made the situation a little more challenging, but if everything went exactly right he’d have Bernard free and the pick of the horses in the next 10 minutes.

But when did everything ever go exactly right?

xxxMMMxxx

This was it, this time he meant it, no more drinking. Waking up with a hangover was never fun but this one surpassed all others combined. His head throbbed, his body ached and he was laying in something wet. He could only guess what and none of the options were pretty. Porthos groaned and the sound rattled and echoed like the boom of a cannon in what was left of his brain. Yeah, he was done.

He really just wanted to sink back into oblivion but the throbbing in his head and the increased ache in his body refused to let him drift off. His leg was now throbbing in time with his head and his thigh burned. Had he finally fallen down the garrison steps and killed himself? Aramis was always on him about that. 

Aramis.

Something about that. He should be here. No, wait, he wasn’t here he was with the Italians. Memories from the last few days started floating back. They were nowhere near the garrison, they had left Royan, split up, he was supposed to find the regiment, the Italians . . . . The Italians! With another groan, Porthos forced his eyes open as he remembered the fight. He wasn’t hungover, he was wounded.

Porthos moaned as he blinked and squinted against the sunlight. He must have cracked his head pretty good to be this out of it. He was on his back, his head slightly downhill from his legs. No, not quite . . . he was laying over something, something damp and wet. He heard water. Hell, he was in the river somehow. He considered it must have been a hell of a fight, even if he couldn’t remember most of it yet.

He lay there trying to take stock of his body, the awkward position not helping as he was having a hard time figuring out how to get up. He shifted his hand to where his right thigh was burning and felt the slick of blood under his fingers. Not all of the dampness was from the river and Porthos tried to remember the details of the fight so he could figure out how badly he was injured. He’d had enough head injuries to know he couldn’t force the memories, they would come back on their own if they ever did, but it didn’t stop him or any other soldier he knew from worrying about it anyway.

Porthos was considering how best to push himself up when the still offending sunlight was mercifully blocked by the outline of a head and a pair of owlish brown eyes blinking down at him. 

“Damn,” Porthos cursed. Apparently, he was not the only one who had survived the battle, but he was the only one currently still unarmed and flat on his back.

“Monsieur, you should not curse, you are about to be dead,” the voice was young and Porthos’s eyes were finally able to focus on the face above him. A boy, 11 or 12 years old at best, towered over him.

“‘Mmm not dead,” Porthos didn’t appreciate the effect talking was having on his headache.

“You are surely dying then, Monsieur,” the boy sounded optimistic in a way that Porthos found annoying.

“Not dying, either,” it was almost a grunt, “ Help me up,” Porthos ordered holding his arm out to the boy. The owlish eyes blinked at him again as the boy considered his options. “Really?” Porthos rolled his eyes. Unbelievable the way this day was going. With a sigh Porthos struggled to move, fighting against uncooperative and aching limbs. He wasn’t sure he was going to be able to do it and then small but strong hands grabbed his right wrist and pulled hard as he leveraged himself up with his other arm.

Sitting up he decided was a mistake as he promptly doubled over and hurled the contents of his stomach into the water beneath his feet. Luckily there wasn’t much. As Porthos wiped the bile and spit from his mouth he glanced up to meet a decidedly disapproving stare from the boy.

“That was disgusting, Monsieur,” the boy said dryly. 

“Where are we?” Porthos asked, looking around.

“In the river, Monsieur,” the boy’s expression didn’t flicker.

“I know we are in the river,” Porthos plastered a smile on his face and tried his best to be polite to the little bastard, “Where is the river.” The boy opened his mouth to respond but Porthos held up his finger to stop him, “Don’t say in the forest,” he warned.

The boy straightened up and cocked his head, “We are in France, Monsieur,” there wasn’t even the hint of a smile.

Porthos pressed his lips together and growled but held back his biting retort. Curse his luck again because of all of the people he could be rescued by, he had to find the miniature version of Athos.

“Do you have a name?” Porthos asked.

“Amos,” the boy said. 

“Amos?” It was practically unbelievable. Porthos couldn’t help but look around because this had to be a joke and Aramis had to be hiding in the bushes laughing. Of course, Aramis wasn’t there but there were two men sprawled on the river bank. Details of the fight came back to him. He had taken one out from the top of the embankment with a shot from his pistol. Then he dropped down from the embankment, landing on another. He dispatched him quickly enough with his knife but then . . . It was still fuzzy.

“We need to check those men,” Porthos said, pushing himself to his feet and steadying himself on the boy’s shoulder.

“Why Monsieur? They are dead,” Amos said.

“Ya thought I was dead,” Porthos said smugly as he waded out of the water and crouched next to one of the men.

“There’s a good chance you’ll die,” the boy said with a shrug.

“Don’t look so hopeful,” Porthos muttered as he searched the pockets of the definitely dead man. He didn’t find much other than more coin than the man’s simple garb suggested he should have. He pushed himself up again, relying more heavily on the help of the boy. His leg was bleeding freely, he could feel the blood running down his calf. He’d have to manage that soon, but he had to know what he was dealing with first.

As he approached the other man, Porthos considered that if he got back down on the ground there was a good chance he would be able to get up again.

“You search him,” Porthos said to Amos, “You’re not squeamish are you?”

Amos rolled his eyes in an exceedingly Athos-like way and knelt beside the body. He was thorough and checked every pocket quickly and efficiently. Rising, he held out his findings to Porthos. A coin purse, a packet of letters, and a ring. Porthos took the last two items, “You keep that,” he said with a nod to the coin purse, “You should get something for your trouble.”

“You are very generous, Monsieur,” Amos answered politely, and this time Porthos found a warmth in the boy’s eyes that reminded him of Athos’s soft looks, those unguarded moments when the taciturn swordsman let them know just how fond of them he truly was. Porthos couldn’t help but smile.

“Where did the third man get to?” Porthos said, looking around.

“He ran off after he killed you,” Amos said helpfully.

“You saw the fight?” Porthos asked, surprised.

“Yes, Monsieur. I was on the path on the other side,” Amos pointed across the bank, “I heard the shot then saw you jump off the embankment and onto one of the men.”

“Then what happened?” Porthos really couldn’t remember.

“The third man drew his rapier and attacked you when you stood up. He cut your leg,” Amos explained, “Then you rushed at him and you cut him with your dagger so he dropped the sword. Then you punched him in the head and he went down. That was pretty good,” Amos said with an approving nod. Porthos smiled smugly, he knew he was a good brawler.

“Wasn’t so smart though to turn your back on him,” Amos said with a frown, “He stood up and hit you over the head with a branch. Flung you all the way into the river.” 

“Hmph,” Porthos grunted although the boy was right. Athos was always on him about not assuming an enemy was down. 

“How long ago was this?” Porthos asked.

“Maybe half to the hour. I waited until everyone was dead until I came over,” Amos explained.

“Will you stop saying that? I am not dead,” Porthos pointed out, “Just those two are.”

“And the other one,” Amos said, hands confidently on his hips.

“You said the other one rode off after he killed me,” Porthos couldn’t believe he had just said that.

“Not that one,” Amos shook his head at what Porthos could only imagine was his perceived stupidity, “the other one, the fourth one.” He looked at Porthos as if Porthos should know who he was talking about, “That one!” Amos pointed to a little bit further down the riverbank, “The one behind the rock. He sat through almost the entire thing.” Porthos looked at Amos’s exasperated expression thinking there was something he should understand but clearly didn’t . . . 

“Bernard!” It came to Porthos in a flash. They had been holding Bernard prisoner. “Bernard!” Porthos called out, making his way toward the rocks where Amos had indicated. Every step pained him, but Porthos had to find the other musketeer. It turned out he was not far. He lay behind the boulder he had been sitting on, hands and feet still bound, but unconscious. A trickle of blood along his temple. Porthos dropped to the ground, adrenaline pushing him past the pain of his wounds.

“Amos, get me some water,” he ordered and was happy to see the lad scurry off without another word. Porthos felt the musketeer’s neck and found a strong and steady beat beneath his fingers. Other than a blow to the head he appeared uninjured and if they were lucky - which Porthos was beginning to think he never would be again - the head wound would be minor. Amos reappeared by his side, holding out the canteen to Porthos.

“Good lad,” Porthos said with a smile and was sure he saw a corresponding twinkle in the eyes of Amos’s otherwise expressionless face. “See if you can find my dagger so we can cut these ropes off?” With a nod, the boy was off again as Porthos poured some water in his hand and then lightly patted Bernard’s cheek.

“Bernard, come on,” Porthos encouraged as the young man’s eyes began to flutter open, “Wake up, musketeer. That’s an order,” he commanded. Porthos rarely did that but as a senior member of the regiment, he certainly had the authority to issue an order in certain circumstances. Not that Bernard was in a position to analyze the situation. The young Musketeer complied, forcing his eyes open and struggling to sit up.

“Easy,” Porthos said, placing a restraining hand on the man’s shoulder, “You’re trussed up like a turkey. Just lie there until I get you untied.”

“What happened?” Bernard asked, squinting up at Porthos.

“You were captured, I rescued you,” Porthos said simply, “Where are you injured?”

Bernard thought a moment, trying to piece things together before he answered, “I’m not. I mean just my head. They surprised me at gunpoint, I . . . . I didn’t fight,” the young man trailed off, shifting his eyes away from Porthos.

“Hey, hey, it happens,” Porthos said, giving the man a reassuring pat on the shoulder, “I just got rescued by a 12-year-old boy after turning my back on a man I thought was down. The important thing is we are both alive.” Amos returned, brandishing a dagger that was definitely not Porthos’s. As Porthos took up the weapon and leaned over to cut Bernard’s bonds he noticed a familiar crest on the ornate blade. This weapon was the property of the Medici’s.

xxxMMMxxx

They ended up making camp in the clearing. Bernard’s head injury was not severe but Porthos was in rough shape by the time all was said and done. Bernard cleaned and stitched the wound in Porthos’s thigh, but only after he’d received a shiner from the big man who apparently had an aversion to needles. Lucky for Bernard the right hook that got him took all of Porthos’s remaining strength, and with Amos sitting on his chest and Porthos’s arms pinned beneath his own body, Bernard was able to stitch him up. That the fighter passed out during the process made it even easier. They made Porthos as comfortable as they could and then Amos retrieved the horses, including Porthos’s, and they sorted the gear and weapons left behind and hauled the dead bodies into the underbrush.

By the time Porthos woke it was evening and Bernard was roasting two rabbits that Amos had snared earlier. Although his head still ached, Porthos felt worlds better and after a meal and some more rest, he would be fit to ride out in the morning. But where would he ride to? They couldn’t read the papers to know what orders the Italians might be carrying, but Bernard had said they had questioned him about the whereabouts of the musketeers and orders from Cardinal Richelieu. Bernard had told them nothing, but all that meant was that they were still searching. It was unlikely that this was the only search party and the way the third man had ridden off, not even checking his companions or bothering further with Porthos or Bernard, suggested he was on his way to a rendezvous. The captain and the others were in more danger than they suspected if the Medicis had sent a raid on to French soil. They had to be warned but Porthos had orders to contact the regiment. If there was a strong contingent from Florence they would need more than just three musketeers to hold them off. The treaty was crucial to France but if he didn’t reach the others in time, they could be ambushed before negotiations even began.

Porthos laid back on his bedroll, his mind whirling with scenarios even as his body dragged him toward much-needed sleep. He felt the warm press of Amos at his back where the boy had rolled over against him. He found it oddly comforting to know that he was not alone in these woods. To his left, where Aramis should have been, Bernard was already asleep, snoring quietly like Athos sometimes did.

He missed them. Missed their quiet conversation that usually dissipated Porthos’s restless thoughts and led him gently into peaceful sleep. He didn’t know what those two talked about each night but their quiet voices at the end of the day were something he had gotten used to. He had no intention of letting a bunch of mad Italians change that. If only he could figure out how.


	8. Rhetorics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay but I’ve gotten preoccupied with my AU story Ashes and then of course had to go and start on a H/C romp through a Bad Things Happen Bingo card (My Bleeding Heart). But this story is far from forgotten - it’s just fighting for attention!
> 
> My thanks as always to Issai for her beta-reading skills. The work is better because of her. THe lingering mistakes are all on me. 
> 
> Thank you for continuing to read and comment! I appreciate it so much.

“They pray a lot,” Athos’s dry comment came with a nod toward the Jesuit group, holding their morning service beneath the shelter of a large oak tree. 

Treville sighed and tugged open the top of his doublet. It was warm even in the shade of the trees they sheltered under. 

“They take the opportunity when they can,” Treville said with more patience than he felt, “Father Pietro felt we made good time yesterday and could afford to delay to say mass here. They might not be able to again until after this business with Savoy is done.”

“The only thing more tedious than soldiering is praying,” Athos said as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the tree he was sitting under. “I can’t see how Aramis stands it.”

“Has he learned anything further?” Treville asked.

“Other than more of that infernal Italian, no.” Even for Athos, that response held a note of bitterness that did not escape Treville. The tension in his moody Lieutenant had been on the rise since they had seen Porthos off two days ago. Treville knew better than to address it, he would only run harder into the stone wall that was Athos.

“We’ll be at Saint-Medard-en-Jalles at noontime, and from there we will send the emissary to the Duke to arrange the meeting,” Treville was glad to see Athos’s demeanor shift as he sat up to engage fully in the conversation. “The treaty will be signed at a mutually agreed upon place that evening.”  
“Smart,” Athos mused, “No one can take a tactical advantage over the other with such little time.”

“No way to plan an ambush,” Treville agreed, “It’s a good strategy on the part of the Cardinal.”

“The one thing we can’t accuse him of is being a fool,” Athos added. 

“The Cardinal is forming his own guard, modeled after the musketeers,” Treville said, offering Athos a hand up. His Lieutenant took it and he pulled the smaller man to his feet.

“That should prove interesting if we ever return to Paris,” Athos said, dusting the leaves and dirt from his pants. Treville did not miss the bitter note in Athos’s comment. They had been in the field too long and this latest entanglement was yet another obstacle between them and home. They would have been provisioning the regiment for a return from the field had they not encountered the Jesuits.

Their morning prayers complete, the company finished breaking camp and prepared their mounts for the half-day ride. Aramis led his horse to where Treville and Athos were checking their tack, looking more relaxed than he had in days.

“Captain,” Aramis gave a nod of his head, “Brother Giovanni asks I ride point to Jalles with him. He’s their best tracker and Father Pietro wants us in the vanguard in case of ambush.” It seemed a good tactic but beside him Athos gave a little grunt before swinging himself up in the saddle.

“Athos?” Treville queried his Lieutenant, wondering what his objection was.

“By all means,” Athos said flatly, “Brother Giovanni seems like a fine tactician.”

“If I did not know better, I would think you were jealous,” Aramis teased lightly, but Treville did not see anything lighten in Athos’s gaze. The marksmen gave an uncomfortable shift and tugged on his hat, breaking Athos’s dark look.

“Well then . . .” Aramis cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the Captain, “Father Pietro requests you ride with him so he can discuss possible meeting spots in advance of our arrival.” The captain nodded and Aramis lead his horse toward Brother Giovanni who was already mounted and waiting at the edge of the clearing. Treville swung up on his own horse.

“You don’t like this,” he said to Athos who had pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes.

“I don’t like any of it,” Athos said lowly.

“Do you want to ride with them?” Treville asked.

“No,” Athos was definitive, “I’ll stay with you. I told him I’d watch his back and I can do it better from there.” Treville nodded and shifted his own hat on his head. Athos’s unease was a stark counterpoint to Aramis’s new-found peace and Treville was not sure what to make of it. He knew the two men were great friends, but it appeared that Aramis was slowly drifting away from his companions, the musketeers, everything. Like an moored boat on an outgoing tide, it was a gentle pull but it the distance to shore was growing nonetheless. 

The company moved ahead and Treville swung his mount around to find a place by Father Pietro toward the middle of the column. Athos seemed to hesitate a moment but then followed the Captain, settling in a spot toward the rear of their group, just behind the still hostile Brother Luigi. Despite Aramis’s friendly overtures, Brother Luigi still looked on him with suspicion and disgust. It was clear he did not like Aramis, and had not from the beginning. Treville was glad that Athos was there to keep his promise to watch over their marksman.

XxxTTMxxX

The day was beautiful but warm so the canopy of trees as they rode further into the foothills was a welcome gift from a great and benevolent God - or so at least Aramis thought as he directed his horse along the narrow earthen track winding through the pines and birches. He breathed deeply, the musky forest smells calming in a way that made him think of a boyhood spent playing in the woods. Aramis didn’t often think of those days, more than not time in the forest gave way to memories of hunting with his father, which were not so pleasant, or of campaigns with the army and then the musketeers which were generally even less pleasant. If it was a wintery forest then the ghosts of Savoy would whisper to him and there would be no peace at all. But today it was his boyhood memories that took root, blossoming into an unexpected peacefulness that Aramis rarely found when on a mission.

It hardly felt like a mission riding with these men. Between masses and prayers that punctuated the days, the quiet conversations about theology and philosophy, and the gentle rule of Father Pietro to which the loyal Jesuits offered their full obedience Aramis felt he was more on a pilgrimage than a military mission. Father Pietro’s lesson in obedience from the night in the tavern had been echoed again and again in his conversations with Brother Giovanni and the other monks. Aramis had been forced in his conversations to acknowledge his own willfulness as a source of his despair. How much trouble had he caused for his own lack of obedience as a soldier, a lover, a son? A guilt he had thought long assuaged rose up in his heart as he remembered the night he left his father house. The man had been stern yes, but was it not Aramis’s own willfulness and pride that had brought on the strict punishments? Was not the sad story of his lost child and Isabelle’s forced seclusion in a convent the result of his disobeying the rules of his father, of the community and of the church? Father Pietro had told him to pray on obedience and Aramis for the past two days had made a willing attempt to bend to the yoke. What he found was not the rebellion he expected but a peace that surprised him. For when he stopped challenging his commander, his orders, his situation and put responsibility in the hands of others he found his heart in less turmoil and his soul soothed. When he stopped resisting and fighting he allowed himself to be an instrument in God’s hands as Father Pietro claimed he was. 

His role as forced assassin had been torturing him for weeks but if he cast himself in the role of obedient soldier he could see he need not bear responsibility or shame. He still felt those things, but he pushed the thoughts away as he worked to stamp out resistance and rebellious thoughts as they came up through the day. In embracing an emptiness of will Aramis found a quiet mind devoid of the guilt and worry he had felt over his actions. So yes, this was for him a pilgrimage. Not to a place, but one to discover that release and freedom actually came in the form of truly bowing to the authority placed over him. Father Pietro would be a firm master, but who better to hone the instrument he could become? 

“You are lost in your thoughts this hour, brother,” a soft voice said from next to him. Brother Giovanni had ridden up to his lead position and together they were a good many paces ahead of the rest of the men. Aramis gave the man a friendly smile, feeling a small pang of guilt that a man other than a musketeer, than two particular musketeers, had called him brother. 

“You have given me much to think about,” Aramis said, “And this ride lends itself to contemplation.”

 

“Are you perhaps rethinking your decision to stay with the Musketeers?” Brother Giovanni asked.

Aramis sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. Was he really ready to give voice to these thoughts? Speaking them made it real, a true choice to make rather than just a fantasy that was giving him unexpected comfort after the struggles of their last mission. Would he truly consider leaving the Musketeers?

“I admit my time with you and your brethren has been enlightening,” Aramis said with a smile, “I have found your company to suit mine well. I wonder though if I am fit to truly take up the cloth as a man of God.”

“We are all sinners, brother,” and there was that word again. Could Aramis truly leave behind his brothers-in-arms? Could he ever call any other man brother and have it mean what it meant to him now?

“What do you think?” Aramis gave his aching conscience some relief with a shift in the focus of the question, “Would I make a good Jesuit?” 

“By all accounts, you are practically one already!” Brother Giovanni laughed, “Your comrades, though I’m sure are decent military men, are brutes in their morality. Does this Athos you ride with go to mass? Does he seek absolution of sin? Does he live by God’s rule? Ha!” Brother Giovanni gave a wry smile, “I see by your face that he does not. The better question brother, is do you make a good Musketeer?”

“We have more in common than you might assume,” Aramis said tightly, not liking the disparaging of Athos’s character, even if he could see the note of truth. Yes, Athos was little more than a heathen on most days, but from what Aramis could see that had not always been the case. Something had happened to his friend, something dark and damaging that lead him away from the comfort of the church and of his fellow man. Athos deserved support not condemnation.

“Ah, I do not mean to offer insult,” Brother Giovanni smoothed over the callous comment, “I mean only there are several angles from which to look at this. If you have doubts you must question both where you are and where it is leading you.”

“I’d have a hard time with the celibacy,” Aramis said lightly, trying to change the subject.

“We all do brother,” Brother Giovanni raised a mischievous brow, “but we have our ways around that too, should you care to learn them,” Aramis felt a flush rise to his cheeks. He was completely caught off guard by Brother Giovanni’s statement, so much so he was likely blushing for the time since becoming a musketeer. Brother Giovanni looked at Aramis’s reddening face and let out a deep laugh.

“Monsieur Aramis, I am a man of the cloth but I am also a man of the world,” Giovanni said with a shrug, “Absolution is offered no matter what our sin. Do not forget that.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” Aramis said, tugging his hat lower over his face. This entire conversation was going down the most unexpected of roads. They rode on again in silence until Brother Giovanni thought of another question.

“What of France, Monsieur?” Brother Giovanni asked.

“What of her?” Aramis said, “My heart will always belong to King and country.”

“That is not the way of the Jesuits,” Giovanni explained, “You would need to renounce your loyalty to anything and anyone other than to the Jesuit order. We are under the direction of the Pope.”

“The Pope has long be a friend of France,” Aramis said with a shrug, “There would be no conflict as we are a Catholic nation.”

“France has not always been so,” Giovanni pointed out, “Do you think France and her King are always in the right, no matter the circumstances?”

“No, France and the King are not always right,” Aramis sighed, “It is what has brought me to this place of indecision.”

“Could you imagine being loyal to something other than a self-serving boy king and his whims? Because I think you could be. I think your loyalty is wasted on your country and your leader,” Brother Giovanni’s voice had deepened and the forest seemed to blanket his words.

“If you were a countryman,” Aramis said quietly, “Those words would be treason.”

“But if you are a countryman and yet you know them to be true, what does that make you, Aramis?” Brother Giovanni questioned, “Your loyalty is admirable, but you have put your faith in the wrong things. You are a liar at best, Monsieur Musketeer.”

Aramis bit his lip and gave Brother Giovanni a considered look from under the brim of his hat. This conversation had an edge that Aramis did not like. Something seemed off. The brother had been nothing but helpful and gentle with him up to this point, indulging in long and thoughtful conversation and inviting him into the circle of the Jesuits. But this conversation was strange, as if Brother Giovanni was interrogating him, looking for some kind of information that Aramis did not know he had. It could just be his frame of mind, Aramis was not by nature suspicious but these last weeks had set him on edge in ways he was still discovering. No matter, his gut was telling him something was wrong and Aramis knew enough to listen to that at least.

“We have gotten very far ahead of the others,” Aramis said, looking around, “I think we should venture back.”

“By all means, yes,” Brother Giovanni said with a warm smile, “I did not mean to distract us so much from our duty. Lead on,” he said, kicking up his horse so she pulled slightly ahead to give Aramis space to turn his mount around on the narrow track they had been riding.

Aramis gave a grateful nod and wheeled his horse back down the track the way they had come. Heading back instantly made him feel more at ease. He had been wrong to give himself so much time in the woods alone. Porthos was always on him about thinking too much. While he had appreciated Brother Giovanni’s company, he wanted nothing more than to be sharing this ride with Porthos. Caught up in memories of their many rides together, Aramis missed the quiet sounds of a pistol being readied behind his back.

XxxTTMxxX

The quiet of the afternoon in the forest was shattered by the bang of a musket shot echoing through the trees. Startled horses balked and the men wrestled to control them. Father Pietro shouted orders and tried to get the men organized. Athos, from his position at the rear could see nothing - he stood in his stirrups trying to look ahead over the heads of the other men. He didn’t see Aramis at the front of the group, but the marksman had roved further out as the day had worn out.

Athos’s heart was in his throat as he looked for Treville. He was sure that shot had come from ahead of them, where Aramis had been riding point. He spotted Treville in a heated conversation with Father Pietro, arguing and gesturing ahead while the priest seemed to insist that they move into the woods. That answered that, Athos would not be waiting on an order from Treville. Athos kicked up his mount and started forcing his way through the Jesuit company. He had to get to Aramis.

Halfway through the group of men, more shots ran out, this time from behind, where he had come. Cries of “Ambush!” filled the air as men drew blades and fired off rounds into the woods. It was hard to know where the attackers were and then everything was in motion as men swarmed from all around them. Athos drew and fired as one man charged at him from the left, then wheeled his horse to pick off another man as he raised a gun toward Treville’s exposed back. Athos used his spent weapon as a club to hit another attacker in the head then drew his sword and began pushing back toward Treville who fought side by side with Father Pietro. Athos was one of the few men still mounted and had the advantage of height in attacking those below him as well as using his battle-trained stallion as another weapon. The horse was fierce when ordered, stamping down on anyone that came in his path. But Athos’s position on the horse also made him an easier target. A bullet bounced off of a tree behind him and Athos realized that some of their attackers had reloaded. There must be more still in the woods than the ones they were engaged with here.

Athos tried to stay low in the saddle as he advanced toward where Treville was fighting, but it was almost impossible given the attackers swarming around him. He realized he’d have to give up his mount as musketballs whizzed by while he parried away the attacks of the men on the ground. Athos pulled his main gauche in time to block a blow from his left then dropped his left stirrup and kicked the attacker hard in the sternum. As he fell, Athos swung his leg over the front of the saddle and took the forward dismount Aramis had been teaching him. He was less graceful than the marksman but it was still effective. 

Just as he was swinging down from the saddle, one of the musket balls found its mark. A searing pain shot through his right bicep and he dropped his sword as he dismounted. He landed with a grunt, and stumbled back against his horse, grateful the beast was trained to be steady in the midst of a battle. He didn’t have much opportunity to catch his breath as two men were on him almost immediately. He could parry the one on his left with his main gauche, but Athos knew he was wide open to attack on the right. He had little choice, he defended where he could and cursed under his breath than neither Aramis nor Porthos were where they were supposed to be - by his side. 

He blocked the attacker on his left and then leaned into the hit, using his momentum to take the attacker to the ground. He knew it left his back exposed but he might have bought himself enough time to avoid the attack from the right until he could defend it. Still sitting atop the winded assailant he had tackled, he shifted to turn, catching the flash of a blade as it descended toward his exposed back. He had been too slow.

The anticipated cut never came. Another blade intercepted the arc of the one intended for Athos and then Brother Luigi was stepping between Athos and the attacker. Taking advantage of the other man’s defense, Athos took the time to slam the hilt of his main gauche into the head of the man he was still straddling before he struggled to his feet, right arm throbbing. Finding his sword on the ground, Athos shifted his main gauche to his right hand and retrieved his sword with his left. His parry would be weak, almost useless with the condition his arm was in, but he was as good a swordsman on the left as the right. Taking a position with Brother Luigi at his back, he arc his blade and found his next target.

As the two men fought together they found a natural rhythm. Brother Luigi took note of the Athos’s weak side and covered while Athos recognized that he had more strength in his attack than the Jesuit despite his wound and the man’s obvious skill. That strength would not last long though as the battle lust in his veins would succumb to the blood loss and pain soon. Athos didn’t think they had long in this fight if they didn’t turn it now. He looked around and the Jesuits seemed to be holding their own even though they were outnumbered. They were fine swordsman and fierce fighters, not unlike Musketeers although the king’s troop was more battle-seasoned and Athos knew his comrades would fight a dirtier, more vicious fight, than these men. Still, they could route the attackers with blades if this was the full measure of the assailants. Unfortunately it was not as another shot came from the trees and Athos watched another Jesuit fall. Again he wished for Aramis who by now would have found the shooters still in the woods. As Athos dispatched another man he didn’t have time to think much more on the fate of his comrade, he had to get to find those marksmen or they would not survive this.

“The shooters!” Athos yelled over his shoulder to Brother Luigi, “We have to find them.” The priest grunted as he stabbed an attacker through the throat with his main gauche, then braced his foot against the man’s torso as he yanked the blade back out and pushed the man to the ground.

“Si! I go right side!” and then he was off, a whirl of blades pushing past the edge of the track they had been traveling on. 

Athos saw him disappear into the forest and then did a similar maneuver, slicing into the shoulder of an attacker and then shoving him to the ground as he rushed past him. In the cover of the trees on the side of the track Athos paused, listening and watching. He wasn’t exactly sure where the shooter was, but then he considered, where would Aramis be in they had set an ambush? Athos looked up, scanning the lower branches of the trees. He spotted the man above him, toward the rear of where they fighting was concentrated. He had a great vantage point. It was just lucky for them he was not nearly as accurate as Aramis.

Focused on the battle up head, the man had no idea Athos had circled around and was below him. While Athos had no pistol, the shooter had not gotten himself that far up in the tree. With a little reach Athos was easily able to grab ahold of the man by the ankle. The startled man easily lost his balance when Athos gave a tug and he tumbled from the tree. Athos backed away, narrowly avoiding the man falling on him. The shooter landed on the forest floor with a dull thud. Athos moved in to finish him off, but there was no need. From the blood pooling around his head it was clear this man was done. His side taken care of, Athos worked his way back to the battle hoping Brother Luigi had fared as well. If the shooters were down, they’d have this fight in hand.

Reaching the track, he saw the remaining Jesuits in fact had the upper hand and were forcing their opponents back. Oddly, despite their dwindling numbers, the attackers persisted rather than running off. These were not just brigands looking for an opportunity against what appeared to be a small company. There was more to this. But Athos didn’t have time to consider it further as yet another man appeared in front of him. He cut him down easily, but he felt his body weakening, his arm throbbing in time with his heartbeats. As the man fell, Athos caught sight of Treville ahead of him, fighting alongside Father Pietro as he had done with Brother Luigi. Athos pressed forward, working to get to his commanding officer. The Captain was a solid swordsman and seasoned soldier. He fought with a ferocity that never failed to inspire Athos. In their time together through the Huguenot campaign Athos had developed a deep respect for the fiery veteran who lead them on and off the field. He knew Treville could hold his own. Still, a Musketeer never left anyone for granted. Wounded as he was, Athos pushed to get to Treville’s side. 

There were only four attackers left yet they refused to disarm. But the Jesuit company was also diminished, a handful remaining upright. Father Pietro broke off from Treville to help one of his men subdue a man nearly the size of Porthos. Treville kicked an attacker back to the ground who was struggling to rise up and join the fight again. He raised an arm to signal Athos he was alright just as two shots rang through the trees. Treville’s face widened in shock and then he was falling to the ground face first, landing hard and remaining unmoving. Behind where he had stood Athos watched another man fall from a low tree branch, Brother Luigi had found the other shooter, but an instant to late.

With a guttural cry Athos ran past the remaining attackers to fall to his knees at Treville’s side. The bullet had taken him in the back, near the shoulder and was bleeding profusely. Athos grabbed his scarf from his neck to staunch the wound then shifted his right hand under the Captain’s shoulder feeling for a second wound. There was none. The bullet was still lodged in Treville’s body. The shot was bad enough, having struck close to the joint and possible damaging the bone but having to dig it out would be far worse. The risk for infection or in inflicting further injury was high. Athos held tightly to Treville as he called for help, knowing that treating him was beyond his capabilities even if his own right arm was not nearly incapacitated. Where the hell was Aramis?


	9. Restoration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least I can attribute my delay in posting to something you all can appreciate - I have been traveling in Paris! My first trip there and it is so much more amazing than I even imagined. Perhaps I did see even see a musketeer or two leaving a tavern in Le Marais. . . I’m sure I’ll be writing about it later!
> 
> My thanks to Issai for her conscientious beta reading and to all of you continuing to read this story. Makes my day to hear from you :)

Father Pietro had to pry Athos’s hands off of Treville. He and another man pulled the Captain to the edge of the road to see to his wound while another man tried to round up the horses. Someone tied a crude bandage around Athos’s bleeding arm but otherwise paid the musketeer no mind as the swordsman knelt in the road, surrounded by the corpses of both friend and enemy. There were only four of the Jesuit company left, including Father Pietro. All of the attackers however, were dead. 

Athos felt drained, the battle-rush gone. A deep weariness was overtaking him, which was not unusual after he was wounded in battle. He did not think it was life threatening, but it was enough to sap his strength as he fought to manage his pain. He clutched his right arm to his chest. The muscle burned with any movement. He would not have the use of his right arm for some time, he knew.

Still, there was work to do. Athos pushed himself up from the ground. He staggered to where Father Pietro and the other Jesuit were bent over Treville. They had his shirt off and were wrapping strips of torn linen tightly around the Captain’s shoulder.

“He needs surgery,” Athos said, surprised at his own breathlessness, “The ball has to come out.”

“Not here,” Father Pietro’s tone was clipped. He sounded a lot like Treville, “We will treat him when we make camp at Saint-Medard-en-Jalles. The mission . . . “  
“To hell with your mission,” Athos spat, “Look at the men it’s cost already. Your men. This was no random attack.”

“Cardinale Richelieu placed you under my command,” Pietro stood, leaving the remaining man to finish with Treville. The priest was full of the same fire he had when he rode into the courtyard at the head of his troop accusing Aramis of murder. “Your place, you forget it,” he hissed menacingly.

“He put Aramis in your command,” Athos corrected, tightening the grip on the sword in his left hand despite the nearly overwhelming ache coursing down from his wounded arm, “Treville is unconscious, I rank here. I’m telling you, we are done. Collect your men, we need to find Aramis and get everyone to shelter. Treville is not the only man here who needs medical attention,”. Athos gave a nod toward the other two Jesuits who had collected the majority of their mounts. One had a bandage wrapped around his leg and was using a stick to keep himself upright. The other had long trail of blood lining the side of a too pale face. They had won this battle, but only by a hair's breadth. None but Father Pietro seemed to have escaped without serious injury.

“My men are willing to die for their mission,” Father Pietro snapped.

“No, you are willing to kill them and they are so blind to your rule they are stupid enough to let you,” Athos had had enough of priests and prayers, rules and obedience. This mission had too high a price for what little they had to gain with yet another political arrangement with Savoy. One just as likely to be broken as kept. 

“We are no cowards as it seems the men of France to be,” Pietro growled.

“Persist if you wish then. It will not be with the help of the Musketeers,” Athos said, the tone of command and authority undeniable even with his injuries, “Get Treville on a horse. I’m going to find Aramis.” As worried as he was about the Captain, Athos’s mind was more focused on the marksman. The shot that had started it all had come from ahead of them where his comrade had been riding point. That Aramis had not joined the fray spoke volumes more. Athos had to find him.

Beating back the exhaustion and pain, Athos turned away from an angry and sputtering Father Pietro to collect his horse from the side of the road where he had stayed patiently, refusing to let the other men near him. Not for the first time in their campaign in La Rochelle Athos gave some thanks to the boy King who had insisted they have the finest of stallions for his musketeer regiment. The horse gave a soft snort and nuzzled Athos’s ear before he let him take the reins and lead him forward, stepping over the carnage of the dead men still scattered on the road. 

Athos worked his way slowly down the track, looking carefully to each side for any sign of further ambush as well as the missing marksman. He chose not to dwell on what that shot might have meant. It could have easily been Aramis defending himself as anything else. The marksman had an uncanny sense when it came to uncovering an ambush or avoiding a trap. They had campaigned together enough that Athos and Porthos considered this an established fact and relied on Aramis’s instincts past any reason or logic would suggest they should. 

On top of it, Aramis had the luck of the devil himself. He’d avoided death in some of the most unusual ways. They found him down a chimney once after an explosion had destroyed the roof of the building he had been perched on. Another time he emerged unscathed along a riverbank where anyone else would have drowned in the tumultuous flood water. And the entire regiment knew about him being the sole survivor of the Savoy massacre. No, Athos refused to consider that Aramis had not survived. But that did not mean he was not unharmed. Despite his own weakness and weariness and the wound throbbing in his arm, Athos continued on.

It was Athos’s horse that found him, or to be more precise found Aramis’s horse. They nickered to each other in greeting, Aramis’s midnight black mount pushing itself through some brush to meet the other horse on the track they were following. Athos left his beast with the other, knowing they were too better trained to stray far, and made his way to the edge of the forest where Aramis’s horse had just emerged. He started down the edge of a small gully, looking through the brush at the edge of the road until a flash of musketeer blue pulled his eye to the bottom of the ditch.

Athos’s heart stopped a beat and he had to steady himself against a tree limb at what he found. Aramis lay sprawled on his chest, unmoving, at the bottom of the gully that ran alongside the pathway they’d been on. His hat was off and even from the vantage point above the marksman, Athos could see the blood, too much blood, covering the side of his face and staining the white of his collar red. Athos stood rooted to the spot, unable to will himself forward to confirm what he could already see. Aramis was dead.

“Aramis, damn you,” Athos cursed. It was anger, not despair that was washing over him. The damn fool riding off too far ahead as usual, careless, distracted, always looking for trouble. It had finally found him and now Athos was left with nothing but another broken heart. 

“Is that how you mourn your dead in France,” the cold voice behind him was familiar. Athos turned to find Brother Giovanni on the pathway above him, a pistol at the ready, “You were not deserving of his friendship. But as I final gift I’ll leave you both dead together at the side of the road.”

“Why?” Athos was truly puzzled. Clearly the monk had killed Aramis but why had he gone to so much trouble to befriend him to begin with. Athos’s mind reeled.

“He would have made a fine Jesuit,” the brother said sadly, “but he would have always been a Frenchman. A Frenchman loyal to the wrong King, I’m afraid.”

“You, you are the Medici spy,” Athos said with a disbelieving shake of his head as the pieces clicked into place, “You killed Brother Marcos. 

“I’m afraid I did,” Brother Giovanni said with a sad shrug, “He was the Cardinal’s man, the emissary from France. Without him the mission would end - no interference in the Medici plans to ally with Savoy. I of course did not expect that Padre Pietro would have in this musketeer a replacement.”

“You are the one that tried to frame Aramis for the murder,” Athos said, “and I suspect you are the one who set up this ambush.”

“My horse did not throw a shoe at the Ferry, that is true,” Brother Giovanni moved closer, the weapon trained on Athos making him feel secure, “Once I knew the route, I got a message to one of the family. We had men on either side of the banks looking for the musketeer marksman that we knew the Cardinale had dispatched to meet the Jesuit company. But an ambush of the Jesuits seemed so much easier. The musketeer is of no matter as now the mission is no more. I will sadly have to report our failure to Rome.”

Athos wrinkled his brow in confusion. The only marksman of renown in the musketeer regiment was Aramis. But Brother Giovanni would not have known they had already found him, the Italians knowing little of the musketeers or their reputation. But why would the cardinal need to assign Aramis to this group to begin with? Athos had had his suspicions before that Aramis had somehow been a target all along, and this confirmed it. But too late. Too late for Aramis and too late for him it seemed as Brother Giovanni raised up the weapon level with his heart. Athos knew his only chance was to goad the man to come kill him up close and then maybe get the better of him in hand to hand. But he felt the ache in his nearly useless right arm, and knew even if he could manage it, it would be a desperate act. He did not think he had the strength left to overcome the monk. But still, he would try. He would rather die fighting and fall beside his beloved comrade then be shot like a mongrel dog in an alley in Paris.

“You are no man of God,” Athos said coldly, “You are nothing but the lapdog of Marie de Medici. Why return to Rome at all?”

“I assure you I have taken my orders as any Jesuit has,” Giovanni boasted, “But the family will always come first. Il Papa is a Borgia. Padre Pietro a Savoyard. They have no more loyalty to a united Italy under Il Papa then you owe to your imposter King.” Giovanni came closer, standing right at the edge of the gully. Athos was only two paces below, it should not have been difficult to launch himself forward and tackle the man to the ground. But it was - Athos lunged and stumbled forward clumsily, allowing Giovanni to step back with a laugh. Athos knew the mistake would cost him his life as the crack of the pistol sounded.

But it was Brother Giovanni whose eyes widened in pain and shock as a red stain blossomed over his heart. He staggered backward, falling out of Athos’s line of sight. Athos pushed himself up from where he was laying against the edge of the ditch and turned to meet Aramis’s broad grin, the pistol still smoking in his hand.

“Aramis!” Athos couldn’t help the joyful cry that slipped from his lips. He scrambled down the embankment landing at the marksman’s side where we was still half sprawled at the bottom of the ditch. He reached out a hand to clasp the musketeer at the back of the neck and released a relieved sigh as Aramis brought his head forward to lay against Athos’s. 

“That was too close, my friend,” Aramis breathed the words between them.

“I thought you were dead,” Athos said in return, then shifted slightly to plant a chaste kiss at the marksman’s head. Then he released his hold and sat back on his haunches, “How are you not dead?” He asked, a slight smile playing at his lips. “You are covered in blood.”

“I should be dead,” Aramis said with a smirk, “Luckily Brother Giovanni was not nearly as good a marksman as he thought he was. He let me get ahead of him them tried for a shot to the head from behind my back. I didn’t even hear him ready his pistol, but my horse must have. She gave an awkward step just as he fired and the bullet just grazed me. I pitched myself to the side but had not counted on the ditch,” Aramis raised a hand to the side of his head and lightly touched it, wincining, “Knocked myself out. Have a lump to go with the gash.”

“But all the blood,” Athos breathed, tiredness overtaking him along with his relief.

“I have told you this, Athos,” Aramis chided as he continued to feel gingerly around his scalp, “Head wounds bleed more than the wound deserves. I will have a headache, nothing more, I assure you.” Aramis gave the swordsman a reassuring smile.

“We have to get back,” Athos said, trying to push himself up from the ground, “Treville is wounded. He needs help.”

“Treville? What?” Aramis said reaching for his hat and wiping a sleeve across his bloody face. “What happened?”

“While you were napping in the forest, we were ambushed,” Athos said, “The Medici’s found us courtesy of Brother Giovanni. Most of the Jesuit company is dead, the rest wounded, including Treville.”

“And you,” Aramis said stepping closer to the swordsman to finger the bandage around his arm, “What is this?”

“Pistol shot,” Athos said.

“I’ve told you before to duck,” Aramis said companionably as he took the swordsman around the other arm and guided Athos the few steps up the embankment to the road and their waiting horses.

“I’m as good at following orders as you are sometimes,” Athos replied, grateful enough for his friend at his side that he did not protest the help up the steep slope.

Between the two of them they managed to sling the dead Jesuit over the back of his horse and then they both mounted up and took the short distance back to the others at a quick trot. Athos assumed that Aramis’s head had to hurt as much as his arm for the jostling, but neither complained as they rode to catch up to the remnants of the Jesuit company. 

Treville was mounted on a horse as Athos had ordered, but he was slumped forward over the beast’s neck, ropes wound around his waist keeping him in the saddle. Aramis pulled up beside him immediately and reached to feel the Captain’s life blood coursing through his neck. 

“What happened here?” Father Pietro demanded, gesturing to Athos and the mount he lead, Giovanni’s dead body not even covered with a cloak. They had been laying out the corpses to the side of the road. The other three Jesuits stopped in their gruesome work, drawing their pistols and gathering beside the priest.

“He tried to kill us,” Athos said calmly, “He was your Medici spy. I’m sure if you search him, you will find some sign. He also confessed to killing Brother Marcos and setting the Medici men on our trail. So much then for your vows and the honor of the Jesuits,” Athos spat at the end.

“This cannot be true,” Father Pietro looked distraught. Clearly the idea of betrayal within his own ranks had been as unfathomable to him as Captain Treville had indicated, “Aramis, did he truly to do this?” If it bothered Aramis that the priest was questioning Athos’s veracity, he didn’t show it in his answer.

“Padre, I am sorry,” Aramis said, stopping in his efforts to feel under the bandages on Treville’s shoulder, “but yes, this man betrayed you and your mission. He did try to kill us both.” Father Pietro nodded, his face becoming unreadable. He gestured to the men behind them and they lowered their weapons. As they stood among their dead comrades, feeling the betrayal of one of their own, Athos felt his anger dissipate, replace by a pity born of common understanding. Had not he and the other musketeers faced this too with twenty men dead in the snow and one man deserting to leave Aramis alone to die? Yes, Athos knew what it felt like to have a brother be the one to stab you in the heart.

“I am sorry for this, all of this,” Athos said gently, “but we cannot dwell here. We must get medical help for these men, for the Captain. We passed a town not an hour back—“

“No,” Aramis said, cutting off the Lieutenant, “Treville cannot ride that far. The ball is still inside, it did not pass through. The motion in the saddle will move it further,maybe to a place where we cannot reach it. We need somewhere closer.”

“We are nearly to Saint-Medard-en-Jalles. Brother Marcos had arranged through the Cardinale for supplies to be left there,” Father Pietro reasoned, “It is there we must go, mio figilio.”

“No, this mission cannot continue,” Athos protested, “They need a proper surgeon, a bed. We need rest.”

“Athos,” Aramis left Treville’s side and kicked his mount to nestle beside Athos’s. He reached a hand to Athos’s arm, gripping him by the wrist, “I tell you, it is too much for him. We must make for the closer camp. I can feel the ball, I can get it out, but we cannot stay here on the side of the road and we cannot risk the long ride back to the town. Athos, please,” Athos caught the bright determination in the marksman’s eyes, how straight and strong he sat in the saddle despite his wounds, the tight grip on his wrist as if Aramis could send through their touch some deeper sign of his faith that this was the right course. Athos sighed and gave a shake of his head.

“Very well,” he said, unable to deny the strength of the marksman’s plea, “We make for the camp.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Aramis said softly with a little squeeze to his arm. The priest and the brothers moved back to their work with the dead.

“What is the delay?’ Athos asked, but he was tired and there was no bitterness left to him to express.

“We pray over the dead,” one of the brothers said simply, “It will be only a moment to send their souls to the care of God. They deserve as much.”

“But those are the attackers,” Athos said, bewildered as they leaned to close the eyes of the dead and make the sign of the cross above their heads while they whispered a short Latin prayer.

“It is no matter,” the brother answered, “All men are God’s creatures and all men go back to face his judgement at the end. Even you, musketeer,” he said, turning back to his prayers. Uncertain about this act, Athos glanced toward the marksman wanting his opinion of this practice and if they had time for it. But Aramis was already swinging down from the saddle, joining the Jesuits in sending these men to their final rest.


	10. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know it has been a long delay, but I promise, this one will get done! My thanks to Issai for her beta-reading skills and to those gentle friends who tap me on the shoulder now and again to remind me to keep writing.

Father Pietro had been correct that the campsite at Saint-Medard-en-Jalles was indeed nearby. They were only in the saddle for a short time, maybe a quarter of an hour, before they were taking a small track leading deeper into the forest which opened to a sheltered clearing. Two young men waited, a campfire already stoked, a small pile of crates and bundles beside them. They looked to be local village boys but the weapons they picked up as the company approached told differently. They greeted the Jesuits in Italian and the welcome was warm.

Aramis wasted no time in getting Treville off his horse and settled on a bedroll by the fire. He and Father Pietro managed the medical care while the rest of the camp took shape around them. Athos, in no condition to help anyone with his wounded arm, sat with a blanket draped over his shoulders and a cup of wine in his hand as he waited next for Aramis's attention.

Aramis was always as efficient as possible but prying a musket ball from the flesh of a man was often not a fast or easy thing. Athos closed his eyes as Treville bucked and pulled against restraining hands, a bit of leather shoved between his teeth preventing him from biting his tongue and turning what would have been painful cries to muffled grunts and moans. Athos drank his wine and tried to ignore the throbbing in his arm and the memories of other battlefield surgeries, not all performed under such capable hands as their steadfast marksman possessed.

He must have dozed off at some point during the surgery as he was awoken by a chill as the blanket was removed from his shoulders. He raised his head to blink sleepily at Aramis, dried blood from the marksman's head wound still streaking the side of his face as their self-elected battle surgeon worked to unfasten the ties at Athos's sleeve.

"How is he," Athos asked, sounding more tired than he expected.

"All's well," Aramis said raising his eyes momentarily to meet Athos's, reassurance blossoming in his gaze, "Ball was deep but we got it out. He's resting," Aramis added, turning his attention back to Athos's sleeve.

"I'd still feel more comfortable if we had taken him back to the inn," Athos said, looking around for the empty cup he must have dropped in his sleep.

"I promise you Athos, he might not have survived a longer journey," Aramis said, no bitterness in his voice for the statement, "If the ball had strayed deeper I do not think I could have removed it. You made the right choice letting us come here."

"Perhaps," Athos sighed, the cup nowhere in sight, "I won't be content till we are rid of these priests and this mission." Aramis smiled in response as he pulled off Athos's sleeve. "

"I find your constancy in being discontent comforting," Aramis said lightly, fingers pressing against Athos's bicep. The swordsman tried to hold still as the marksman inspected the injury. After some corresponding pokes and tugs at the back of his arm where the ball had exited, Aramis released him and sat back on his haunches.

"It is not bad but after I clean and sew it you will need to rest the arm." Aramis explained, "The ball sliced through the flesh and I doubt you will have the strength to raise a sword or pistol for some time yet."

"Marvelous," Athos said, a false smile playing at his lips, "Where is my cup?"

"Here," Aramis said reaching behind him, "You are likely to want all of it anyway," the marksman pressed a full bottle of wine into Athos's hands. Athos gave Aramis as graceful a nod as a nobleman could muster, then vulgarly pulled the cork with his teeth. Aramis laughed as he pushed himself up from the ground, most likely off to fetch the surgical kit that Treville had gifted him after the infirmary work he'd done in La Rochelle. Athos spit the cork and took a long draw from the bottle. Experience told him that the less he could feel, the easier this would be.

\--XXX--

While any seasoned soldier knew the basics of battlefield surgery, Aramis's long fingers and dexterous hands made him particularly suited to the gruesome task. He'd done enough of it that the blood and gore, bone and sinew of a torn man did not turn him squeamish as it did Porthos, or confuse him as it sometimes did Athos. He knew well enough where the parts ought to go and what to avoid in a surgery. There were many things beyond his experiences, but he could hold a man together long enough to find a better surgeon or, when the wound was minor, to treat it in such a way as to avoid it festering. That part he had learned when he was assigned to the infirmary in the seminary where his father hoped he might learn to be a priest. That he had turned to soldier had left an irreparable rift between him and his father but he had brought at least that lesson to the Musketeers with great effect.

As Aramis worked to place a neat row of small, tight stitches across the back of Athos's arm he thought about the contradiction that he had become. The same steady hands and sharp focus that made him a deadly marksman also made him the regiment's best surgeon. There was no doubt in his mind that his surgery on Treville had saved the man's life, but it did not erase the lives he had taken in his short time assigned as Richelieu's assassin. Acts of death recorded in the book of his sins would be tallied against the lives he had saved, the wounds he had treated. What did that accounting look like? Could any death really be cleansed away? That he could maim and kill as easily as sew and heal seemed like a balance that God had manufactured.

Aramis had no answer for this contradiction, just as he had none for the piety that ruled his soul alongside the lust that ruled his body, or his abhorrence of following orders alongside his commitment to the life of a musketeer. Dark, gloomy and broken as Athos could be, Aramis nonetheless envied him for the man's surety in his own self. He seemed to have a clear sense of right and wrong with little grey between and no tolerance for contrary musings of conscience. Then again, Athos drank himself into oblivion regularly so it could hardly be peaceful inside the man's mind. Aramis chuckled to himself for supposing Athos might know his own self any better than Aramis did. Neither of them was all that indulgent with introspection when a bottle of wine or a pretty courtesan could change the situation immediately.

"What?" Athos said tiredly, responding to the marksman's unexpected laugh.

"Just considering the situation," Aramis replied, pulling another stitch through. He felt Athos's muscle tighten beneath his grasp, but the swordsman did not move. It was an incredible thing to watch Athos stoically endure almost any injury inflicted upon him.

"I don't see anything to be amused about," Athos said drily before finishing off the last of the wine. Aramis chuckled again and sighed.

"No, I suppose you don't," he said affectionately. He worked again in silence a few more minutes and then knotted the thread through the loop in his final stitch and leaned in to cut the excess with his teeth. Athos visibly relaxed as the needle was put away. Athos might endure it well, but no one liked having their flesh sewn.

"Will he be able to ride tomorrow?" Athos asked looking toward where Treville slept on the other side of the fire.

"Most likely, yes," Aramis said has he helped Athos on with his shirt. The sleeve was ruined with blood of course, but it was whole enough to see them to the next town where they could purchase Athos a new one. "A night's rest and some wine to fortify him and we will be ready to leave. I will be glad when this mission is done.

"Mission?" Athos stopped Aramis's hands where he was doing up his doublet, "The mission ended when we were ambushed and Treville gravely wounded." The glare in Athos's eyes showed Aramis that the wine and the wound had done nothing to temper his anger at the entire situation.

"After we finished removing the musket ball from Treville, Father Pietro chose to send an emissary to meet the Duke of Savoy's man," Aramis was measured as he explained the circumstances to Athos, "He saw no reason not to meet as appointed."

"Most of his men are dead, is that not reason enough?" Athos fumed.

"It is reason enough to negotiate a treaty that will prevent hundreds more from dying in a skirmish over Savoy," Aramis said, an unexpected sadness creeping over him as he found himself in the position of justifying Father Pietro's choices to Athos. Would he always be stuck between these two worlds? "While you may not understand all of what the Jesuits do, as a soldier you must understand the need to follow orders. To finish the mission. Have we not ourselves gone to such extremes?"

Athos continued to glare at him but had no reply to Aramis's argument. With a dip of his head, Aramis reached across them to finish buckling Athos's leathers while the swordsman's right arm dangled uselessly at his side. Aramis knew that had to be as frustrating to Athos as the situation with the Jesuits and tried to let his empathy for his friend soothe the hurt of the man's clear disappointment that Aramis had not intervened with Father Pietro. Truth told, Aramis agreed that after all that had happened it would be unconscionable to turn back now and he suspected that Athos knew he had brooked no argument when the priest had decided to move forward.

"I'm going to bind your arm so you rest it," Aramis said, holding up a swath of black cloth.

"Where is your sash?" Athos asked, eying the black bandage suspiciously.

"Holding Treville together," Aramis smiled, as he gently lifted Athos's arm into the cloth, "I should really get another of those made considering the recklessness of musketeers," He tied it over Athos's shoulder like he would a sling, but then pulled it tighter, binding Athos's arm against his chest.

"Is this really necessary," the swordsman was glaring again.

"You will be done with this in a week if you don't use that arm," Aramis said as he finished off the knot. "Your bedroll is beside Treville," Aramis said, gesturing toward the other side of the fire.

"I'm not an invalid," Athos replied coldly.

"There is more wine," Aramis smiled.

"How did you manage that?" Athos asked, shrugging off Aramis's supporting hand as he tried to guide him to the laid out blanket. Aramis gave a half bow and let Athos pass ahead of him. He followed behind, grateful Athos could not see the fond smile that he was sure the Lieutenant would not approve of. There was nothing so grounding to Aramis as Athos acting exactly as Athos should.

"There was wine with the supplies they had waiting at camp," Aramis explained, a hand beneath Athos's good arm as the swordsman sat heavily on the blanket. Before he could protest, Aramis was handing him a bottle of wine, "Two crates. It seems you have this in common with our Jesuit friends." Aramis gave Athos a mischievous smile as he knelt by Treville, feeling his forehead for fever before pulling down the blanket and slipping a hand beneath the bandages.

"Every man can be redeemed," Athos's sarcasm was accompanied by an unfriendly smile, "Even a Jesuit."

"Your obsession with them is not healthy," Aramis said.

"Neither is yours," came the dry response, punctuated by the sound of a cork leaving the bottle.

Aramis sighed, feeling carefully beneath the bandages over Treville's chest. The wound was dry, no seepage. He pressed lightly at the flesh which did not seem overly warm. Nor did he catch a whiff of putrefaction. All of these were good signs that the wound would heal well. He slid his hands from the bandage and again laid it on his Captain's face, verifying that there was no fever. That really was the only danger now.

In response to the marksman's warm touch, the Captain gave a sigh and shifted uneasily. Not wishing to wake him, Aramis pulled the blanket back over him and smoothed a hand over his brow. The hardened soldier looked much friendly in his sleep, the lines of worry and care erased. In their years together, Aramis had grown quite fond of Treville. After Savoy . . . well, he did not like to think on that overly much, but the Captain had saved his life. He was sure of that. He watched over the Musketeers as any father would - devoted to their care, proud of their accomplishments and quick to chastise their misdeeds. But forgiving as well. There was always redemption in the Captain's eyes. Not so from Aramis's own father. The difference between the two men was startling. Aramis let his hand linger longer than it should have, but the deep gratitude he felt for the captain compelled him. This man had changed his life. Aware of eyes upon him, Aramis looked up to find Athos peering at him thoughtfully.

"How does he fare?" Athos asked.

"Ah, he is well," Aramis said, realizing that Athos had taken his stillness with Treville to be a sign of concern. It was just the opposite in fact, "The wound is dry, no fever. He will be fit in no time."

Aramis pushed himself up from Treville's side and settled next to Athos.

"And how do you fare?" Athos asked knowingly as he passed Aramis the now half-empty bottle. "Are you well too?" Aramis took a long pull from the bottle. How did he fare? That was a good question.

"I am well enough," Aramis answered, meeting Athos's questioning gaze with what he hoped was a steadying one of his own, "Despite the circumstances, this mission has brought me unexpected comfort," Aramis said. Athos's brow furrowed, a frown pulling at his mouth, "What, this disappoints you?"

"Not disappointment, no," Athos said, taking the bottle back, "Concern."

"For what?" Aramis said with a smile.

"For you," Athos said simply, "For the two minds you seem to be in, the split life you lead. Priest or soldier? You became one to escape the other. But those were the choices of a boy. What does the man now chose?"

"What do I chose?" Aramis ran a hand through his hair, agitated at the question, "I am here am I not? My hands this day in your blood and Treville's. I have followed my orders, I have done what was asked of me. Now that I find some respite with men of God in the acts I have committed as a soldier you see fit to question my loyalty?" Aramis felt his anger rising. No matter if the question was a valid one, it was not Athos's place to ask. He pushed himself up from the ground, taking up his hat by the brim, "You have no right to question me or my motives," Aramis slammed his hat onto his head and stalked off, putting some distance between himself and Athos before his temper could get the better of him completely.

He moved to the edge of the clearing, peering intently into the dark forest, arms folded over his chest. Athos was out of line. How dare he suggest that Aramis was anything less than committed, devoted even to the Musketeers. And yet . . . and yet. Aramis took a deep breath, lips tightly closed lest he roar in frustration. He tossed his hat to the ground and ran his hands over his face. What did he want? Athos was only voicing what had been in his mind since the Jesuits had ridden into the courtyard in Royan. Aramis felt his anger toward the swordsman dissipating. Of course his friend, his comrade would worry for him, would be concerned about anything that might take him from his side, from being a musketeer. But did loyalty to his friends, to the sword-brothers they had become, mean he would be a soldier for life? Why was that question constantly being put before him? Aramis was going to have to make a choice - a choice he did not want to face. And this time there was no running from it with the excuse of a broken heart. If God wanted him for the priesthood, he could not refuse. But was that what God wanted?

"Mio figilo," the quiet voice of Father Pietro interrupted Aramis's train of thought, "Do you have a moment?" Embarrassed at being caught off guard, Aramis quickly picked up his hat and tugged it low over his eyes.

"Of course, Padre," Aramis's smile was broad and inviting even if there was no light to match it behind his eyes.

"We have had word back from the Duke's man," the priest explained, "They are prepared to move forward with the treaty. We are to meet them as the sun sets, at the ruins just below the hill we camp on."

"That is excellent news," Aramis said, this time the smile was more genuine.

"I will need the assistance of yourself, "the father continued, "The key you carry. The chest it must be opened now." Father Pietro gestured toward his remaining men, standing in a group behind Brother Luigi who was holding a small box, "Would you join us?"

"Of course," Aramis said, fishing into his doublet to find the chain he had worn around his neck since leaving Royan. He pulled it from his collar to rest the small key in his palm. He glanced toward the campfire, where he had left Treville and Athos. Both men seemed to be resting now, Athos finally having put down the bottle and found some sleep as Aramis had hoped. He considered waking him, but Aramis thought better of it. There was no harm in opening the box - his entire reason for being on this mission was to be sure the treaty was uncorrupted and fairly represented France. That was not a duty that Athos could object to. Aramis pulled the chain over his head.

"Let's find out what France intends for Savoy," Aramis said, gesturing for the Jesuit to lead the way. He palmed the chain and key and looked at the golden links nestled in his hand. Such a small thing to cause so much worry. But after he opened the box his role in this mission would be done. Perhaps with that he could shutter the doubts that these last weeks had wrought. Smiling, he followed Father Pietro to the waiting group of men.

\--XXX--

Treville woke up slowly, the dull ache in his chest refusing to be ignored, the hard ground beneath him forcing his body into restlessness. He blinked groggily trying to get a sense of his surroundings. He noted the campfire, the forest, and a familiar silhouette leaning against a log beside him, hat pulled over his face.

"Athos," the word came out as little more than a harsh whisper. Treville struggled to push himself up from the ground but pain blossomed in his chest. He sank back with a groan

"I suggest stillness," Athos's dry voice floated over him. Treville turned his head to find his stoic Lieutenant kneeling beside him. "You were shot in an ambush," Athos explained as a firm hand pressed him back to the ground, "Do you remember?"

Treville closed his eyes, memories swimming in his head along with the dreams of deep sleep. It came back to him in pieces - the mission, the Jesuits, the ambush in the woods. Treville nodded and opened his eyes again.

"How bad?" Treville asked.

"Aramis says you will ride out of here tomorrow," Athos reassured him.

"Aramis? Where is he?" Treville asked, eyes darting around the camp. Athos stood, gazing around the clearing.

"Not here," Athos reported, "And neither are the Jesuits. Only the two guards who met us at the camp remain." Athos stepped away from Treville and strode toward the other side of the clearing.

Treville turned his head to see where he had gone, but his view was mostly blocked by the campfire. But he could hear Athos, voice low but on edge, questioning someone. The guards he mentioned Treville assumed. Lying helpless waiting for an answer was not Treville's style - with a grunt he pushed himself up on his left arm, trying not to twist his chest and cause any further damage. He felt the telltale tug of what he knew were sutures and slowed to move more cautiously. Wherever Aramis was he would be insufferably annoying if he found Treville had pulled out the sutures upon his return. Propped up on one arm he could see Athos talking to two young men who squirmed rather uncomfortably under the musketeer's questioning. They immediately reminded Treville of musketeer cadets and he realized these men must be initiates to the order.

"Athos!" Treville called out, frustrated at his incapacitation and wanting to know what was going on.

With a final low comment to the two men, Athos turned on his heel and strode back to Treville. He didn't chastise him to lie down again, rather he stooped down and got his arms under Treville to pull him up to a sitting position leaning against the same log where he had been sleeping.

"He's gone with them," Athos said as he maneuvered Treville upright.

"Gone? Where?" Treville grunted through the pain as Athos helped him up.

"To meet Savoy and sign the treaty," Athos explained, "He rode out with them."

"Why would they bring Aramis?" Treville asked Athos as the man poured him a cup of wine, "He is of no use to them now that the treaty has been delivered safely to the meeting point."

"Aramis has grown quite fond of that priest and his men," Athos said, lips tight. Treville could feel the anger rolling off of him. "I doubt he gave much thought to it when they asked him."

"Leaving two wounded men behind?" Treville said, raising a brow, "Athos, you are not thinking clearly. This is Aramis! He would not leave your side should you get a hangnail. You believe he would just up and ride off with no good cause?" It gave Treville a small taste of self-righteous pleasure to see Athos turn his head away, ashamed of thinking so little of a man who he called brother. Athos was a fine soldier but he had much to learn about putting his head before his heart.

"There has been some other motive behind Aramis's assignment to this mission all along," Treville said, ignoring whatever Athos might be feeling and shifting the swordsman's attention to the issue at hand, "Those men have to know something. There must be something here to tell us what is going on."

"Yes, sir," Athos said understanding the statement as the order that it was. A mask of tamed fury descended over his features as he stalked back to the guards. One arm bound as it was, Treville suspected the two guards would not be a match for Athos should they chose not to cooperate. It did not take Athos long to question the two men. He returned to Terville bearing a rucksack and a satchel.

"The priest's belongings," Athos explained as he handed the satchel over to Treville and then kneeled beside the rucksack to start looking through its contents, "The meeting is soon, at a set of ruins at the base of this hill."

Treville began to rummage through the satchel, taking sheaves of paper in his hand and sorting through the ordinary business of soldiering. Manifests and inventories, maps and orders but nothing in particular pertaining to the meeting with Savoy. Treville doubted anything would be in the routine correspondence, but doing nothing was not an option. His gut was telling him Aramis was in trouble and he felt compelled to be doing something.

Beside him, Athos was casting out piles of clothing from the priest's pack. Something thunked on the ground and Treville looked up, the box with the treaty sat amidst the pile of belongings.

"Let me see that," Treville said, gesturing for the box.

"It's empty," Athos shrugged but handed it over the wooden box to Treville anyway.

Treville turned it in his hands, the lid easily opening now that it had been unlocked. It was ornately carved wood, designs of the canonization of several saints decorating the sides. On the lid, Christ himself at the foot of the cross, laying across the lap of his mother, the apostles looking on in grief.

Inside, the box was lined in red fabric but nothing lay on the ruby silk. The treaty of course would be with the Jesuits, ready to be signed by the Duke. Still, something nagged at Treville. He turned the box in his hands again, running a thumb along the decoration on the bottom edge, because sometimes . . . A bit of wood embedded in the keystone design protruded slightly. With a deft hand, Treville gave a push and the bit fell into place, a soft click accompanying the motion. He turned the box over again and looked inside. It all seemed the same, but he ran his fingers over the red lining until he felt beneath it a small rise in the bottom. He pushed in his thumb and it caught hold on a bit of raised wood that had not been there before. Treville pinched and pulled, and the bottom came out of the box revealing a neat stack of parchments marked with Cardinal Richelieu's seal.

Treville pulled out the first page and carefully unfolded it. A map of the region with areas marked in two colors. Each site in black seemed to have a corresponding site in red nearby. It was clearly the area near where they camped, Treville could tell by the river and nearby landmarks. Athos pulled another parchment from the box, it's seal already broken, and opened up the letter.

"Captain, this is not a treaty negotiation," Athos said urgently, "It's an assassination."

"What!" Treville said, reaching for the letter.

"These are orders to kill the Duke of Savoy, his wife, and his new child," Athos explained as he handed Treville the parchment, "And Aramis is assigned to do it."

"That's not possible," Treville hissed as he scanned the letter. He felt his rage build as he read the words. Athos was right - these were orders to ambush the Duke and his family as they signed the treaty. Orders to kill all three and to cast blame upon the Spanish delegation. The letters instructed Father Pietro to take the musketeer marksman with him to accomplish the deed. Aramis had been necessary to the mission all along, but Treville had never anticipated this.

"We will never be rid of Richelieu," Athos fumed, "He has pushed us too far this time. Musketeers are not assassins."

"This is not the work of Richelieu," Treville said, "I promise you that."

"The words are under his seal!" Athos was furious, "How can you deny it?"

Treville took a steadying breath. In his anger, he had spoken too much. Despite the seal, Treville knew it was not Richelieu's order. But to say how he knew was to admit his own role in the blackest act of murder - the death of 20 musketeers in Savoy. Yes, Richelieu had coerced him to reveal the position of his men, but Treville had suspected then, as he had now, that there was more going on. The Musketeers' position had been revealed to Savoy, along with the lie that they were there to kill him. Savoy rode out of the palace to murder the musketeers, leaving his spy vulnerable to capture. All of these actions were taken to protect France's most valuable agent in Savoy - the Duchess. Richelieu would not now order her death having already slaughtered nearly two dozen men to keep her safe.

But Athos knew none of this, could never know. It was a lie that Treville would take to his grave, but also a mark on his soul he could never relieve. He knew Athos waited for a response, but Treville did not have one. With a shaking hand, he pulled the last letter from the box. It was still sealed, marked to say it should be open upon completion of the mission. Treville broke the seal.

"Once the mission is complete," Treville explained as he read, "Aramis is to report to the Cardinal's newly formed red guard. He is reassigned."

"No!" Athos's fury was boundless, it rolled from him like a torrent from the sea, "That bastard has had enough of Aramis, enough of us! We are done even if it means desertion."

"Athos, these are not the Cardinal's orders," Treville said evenly, catching the swordsman's eye and holding his fiery gaze with his steely blue one, "The Cardinal would never assassinate Savoy and his family. It goes against the interests of France - the Duchess is the King's sister. He would never jeopardize his relationship with Louis."

"But the orders . . ." Athos started, but Treville cut him off.

"These are not Richelieu's hand," Treville said, holding up the papers to Athos. The swordsman snatched them from his grasp and read again while Treville continued, "Richelieu has discontinued his assassination squad. He has no interest in killing French citizens."

"And Aramis?" Athos growled.

"He will not touch him," Treville met Athos's challenge with a fierceness of his own, "He will touch none of you. I promise you that."

"But the orders. . .," Athos started and then he cut himself off, crumbling the parchment in his hand, "Rochefort," Athos hissed. Treville's breath caught in his throat. His Lieutenant was shrewd, but he had made that leap quickly. But he didn't interrupt him to ask questions as Athos started to explain his theory.

"The assassination squads were his idea," Athos said, "He is not likely to let that idea go so easily. While our meeting in Royan with the Jesuits seemed a coincidence, we know our orders from Rochefort might have brought us there regardless. This was all by design. Aramis already has proven he will do what his country asks of him, and indeed, there is no better shot in all of France."

"But to what gain?" Treville could not fathom it.

"The Duchy itself," Athos said, eyes narrowing as he calculated the relationships. He squatted down beside Treville, "Rochefort has gained power and favor in the Cardinal's eyes as his right hand in suppressing the rebellion. Who better to award Savoy to but a Comte already loyal to the throne who has proven himself to be the ruthless instrument of the Cardinal?" Treville considered Athos's words. Not surprisingly, his argument made sense. It would be a brilliant political and strategic move on the part of Rochefort and while he might be an abhorred by most men of honor he was a brilliant warrior. A plot like this was well within the bounds of something Rochefort could conceive.

"You may be right," Treville said quietly, suddenly concerned about the two guards who had shifted closer, "but we have no proof."

"We don't proof," Athos said, his earlier fury replaced with a cold and calculating tone that could prove just as deadly, "We just need to stop Aramis."

"Why would he agree to this at all?" Treville slammed a frustrated fist to the ground, wishing he could get up and haul his musketeer back to camp himself, "He seems to pick and choose what orders he obeys from me."

"This last assignment," Athos said, lips pressed thin against his anger, "It affected us all deeply, but none more so than Aramis. The blind obedience he balks at is something he can also lose himself in. Rochefort was smart - he had already primed Aramis for this mission in the weeks before. It should not be such a hard leap for him to kill a woman and child if he knows it is under the order of the Cardinal and to the protection of France."

"That is not the Aramis I know," Treville said bitterly.

"But it is the man he has become," Athos said sadly.

"No, I don't believe he will go through with it," Treville said, "But we must find him. If he refuses to carry out the Cardinal's orders the Jesuits will see that as an act against them and the church. We have to find him."

"I know where the meeting point is," Athos said, pushing himself up to stand, "It's not far."

"No, wait," Treville said, halting the swordsman with his voice, "Hand me the map again," Treville ordered. Athos found the discarded page and knelt beside Treville, unfurling the paper.

"They would not need a marksman of Aramis's caliber for a close-range assault," Treville explained as his eyes scanned the map, "You would want to get him on high ground where the shooter would have full advantage."

"But we did not know the location of the treaty negotiation," Athos said, "It would be hard to find a good position without advanced planning. That is what we were able to do with Rochefort. We were given suggested locations and then Aramis picked one that would work best."

"These locations have already been chosen," Treville explained, pointing at the map, "The sites in black are a dozen potential meeting points, all of which could have been decided in conversation with the Duke's man just a few hours ago. The sites in red, these are all secondary positions related to the primary sites."

"We know the meeting is at the ruins, here," Athos pointed at the location marked on the map, "So Aramis must be here," the swordsman traced his finger to a red circle and Treville pulled the map closer to read the label.

"This looks to be an abandoned outpost not far from where we are, situated above the ruins of the abbey where they are meeting. Aramis would be there," Treville said definitively. Treville discarded the map and put his hand beside him, grunting as he tried to push himself up from where he was sitting.

"Stop," Athos put a hand to Treville's shoulder and pressed him back toward the ground, "You are in no condition to ride."

"And you are any better?" Treville said, glaring at the swordsman's bound arm.

"I did not just go through a surgery, nor was I unconscious and tied to my horse today," Athos responded flatly. The comment was sarcastic, but Treville heard the truth in it. He could not even move to a standing position on his own. Athos was right that he could not come.

"Go," Treville said, his single word reassuring Athos he would stay put, "Bring Aramis back. Do whatever it takes," the order was unnecessary but Treville felt compelled to speak it anyway. Aramis was the one bright light to come from the disaster that was Savoy and this time Treville would do everything in his power to keep his musketeer safe - even if that meant unleashing the unfettered fury of Athos upon anyone who stood between him and his men.

**Author's Note:**

> This story, and lots of my other stories, are also posted on ffn. I really appreciate feedback and constructive criticism, but it's also just very motivating to hear that you liked the story. Please don't be afraid to leave a comment :)


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